


Do To Me What Spring Does To Cherry Trees

by larriebane



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha Harry, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Awkward Boners, Bottom Louis, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Famous Harry, Flirting, Fluff, Los Angeles, M/M, Non-Famous Louis, Omega Louis, Set Around Christmas But It's Not the Theme I Swear, Sharing a Bed, Solo Artist Harry, Teacher Louis, Unfortunately I Am Not Paid To Promote Luxury Homes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 42,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8370304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larriebane/pseuds/larriebane
Summary: Solo-artist!Harry asks Louis to fake a relationship over Christmas at his parents’ place. A free trip to LA sounds nice, and Louis doesn’t have any bad words about the company, either. How fitting that he happens to have a degree in Drama. That must have played a part in Harry’s choice…right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Chicago, December 2016**

A passing taxi sent a shower of freezing water splattering throughout the sidewalk.

The twenty or so pedestrians within reach recoiled, among them a twenty-four-year-old Louis Tomlinson who assessed the state of ruin inflected on his last pair of clean socks. He would have to hang them above the radiator.

“Aw, come _on_ ,” Louis muttered, squinting indignantly after the yellow criminal rounding the corner, red taillights reflecting off the wet asphalt. Where had they got their license?

In the horizon, the buildings were covered by a veil of clouds that hung low. Louis could feel the smell of just-fallen rain and exhaust, wind jackets flapping in the wind, saw the mangled umbrella laid haphazardly discarded in a trash can on his left. Lake Michigan hated him, he was sure. Usually, when he had an umbrella with him, it didn’t rain. When he forgot it, on the other hand…

Louis lengthened his strides.

The entrance to his regular Market & Deli—just a few streets south from his apartment, and right on his way home from work—was at the corner of the crossing. Once inside, he let the wave of warmth envelope him, dried the sheet of moisture by rubbing his sleeve across his face, and tugged his hood down. No more living on coffee and fruit snacks for three days straight.

There’s a faint melody of _Hotline Bling_ that he hums under his breath as he was passing the fruit section, saw an alpha in front of the crates of fruit, lumpy, brown bomber jacket and tight jeans on, sun-kissed skin everywhere. Louis’ attention caught and held.

Hearing the sudden pause in footsteps, the alpha met his gaze, a very human reaction to stimuli, frown already asking, _Why is he looking?_

Why was he, indeed? Maybe it was the tan, so out of place on a December day. Maybe it was the whole concept on sunshine that seemed improbable while, right at that moment, the change in the weather became apparent, and the light streaming through the banners plastered to the large front windows turned weak.

Then, almost out of character, and with his shopping basket placed as a shield between them, the alpha suddenly closed the distance between them.

“Hi,” he said, “horrible weather, isn’t it?”

Up close, Louis saw the tips of hair curled in moisture escaping his beanie, expressive eyes and wide mouth in a collection of features that may have looked funny on him once, but which he had later grown into. Louis, strangely, felt the muscles on his face relax at the sight of him.

“Depressing to some, maybe,” Louis replied, “but I feel as if I were right at home.”

The taller man quirked an eyebrow. “British.”

“Yes.”

He noted the alpha had a logo of the Packers on his green beanie—surprisingly not a turn off even though it wasn’t _real_ football—under which the man had stuffed his wayward curls.

“Do you often strike up a conversation with random strangers?”

“Sometimes I do it in the bathroom,” the alpha said as thought sharing a joke Louis didn’t get, and getting confused when it didn’t get the expected reaction, “and only with the chosen few.”

Louis’ brows crept closer to his hairline.

“Brave. You better choose them wisely unless you want to start a brawl. Speaking with other alphas relieving their needs breaks perhaps the third most important rule of the urinal etiquette, right after admiring some inches.” Louis resisted carrying on with: ‘But I guess you’ve got that covered’, having caught how the alpha filled his jeans. “Or at least some carefully crafted no-homo-code?”

The taller man bit his lip, and Louis watched the blood return to it. It reddened to a color close to that of a cherry.

“Pee-code?” the alpha suggested.

Louis snorted. The man had lit up an ache inside him; a welled-up homesickness of not having heard a voice like this one, of the country he called home. He also wished he had showered less than two days prior, and was afraid to move, lest it became apparent.

“You should eat more fruit,” the alpha told Louis, having come to the realization that Louis was not going to pick up anything green to go with the cashew nuts and chocolate milk weighting his basket at present.

It was something his mother would have said, too, had she been there to lecture him. Feeling self-conscious that a stranger could sense his college-ish diet (and he hadn’t even got to the cereal yet), Louis tugged at the hem of his parka subconsciously. It always rode up and rucked at the small of his back, above his ass.

“So, let me sort this out.” As always when the sass came out, so did the hands, currently animatedly signing nag-nag. “You just come up and talk to strangers—in toilets, if need be—and give intellectual instruction about the eatwell plate. How social norms non-conforming of you. Do you talk with your mouth full, too? Or is that not done over fancy servings of organic soy milk?”

The taller man, comprehending, looked down at the carton squeezed between his bananas and a quarter of a watermelon, face lighting up in recognition of _He’s got a mouth on him._

 _“Faux pas_ , as they say in French,” the alpha replied, in mockery of Louis’ use of the word fancy. “Or _gaffe_.”

Louis’ shoes squeaked against the linoleum. His socks were still wet. They walked away from the vegetables together to where the cheese laid color coordinated behind a display cabinet. The alpha started to weight the cheese brands, abandoning one after another.

“On a diet?” Louis inquired.

“It’s more like a reflex.”

“Need to stay in shape for the press?” Louis smirked, browsing through the cheap pastas on the opposite shelf, so he was one to talk. “But, seriously speaking, how good is green stuff for me, really? It’s expensive, and to be frank, the two-minute pot noodles I ate yesterday probably held me over longer than two apples would,”

The alpha may or may not have looked positively alarmed at the mention of pot noodles, but with the state of Louis’ kitchen and his skills in it, it was his culinary peak.

“Well, most of them are organic with less additives and pesticides. You can also buy them through Fair Trade, which I believe you have heard about, and,” the taller man smirked, “don’t they say: apple a day, keeps the doctor away?”

“What if it’s a cute doctor?”

“Acidic fruits make slick and cum taste sweeter, and their texture better,” the alpha said in a conversational tone like he was repeating something he had heard about lions on Discovery Channel. “It’s scientifically proved.”

And if Louis couldn’t look away from the basket the alpha set onto the floor when he retrieved some olive oils, it was only because he was wondering how he could afford all of that.

“On the other hand,” Louis piped up after a short silence, “green food doesn’t sound too bad.”

The alpha was just about to answer when his phone rang. Louis recognized the ring tone as Beyoncé’s _6 Inch_. He wondered if it was a pun.

“Do you like pop?”

The man’s head jerked up, muting the call. There was a shadow of mustache above his pursed lips. “Is that a trick question?”

“I’m not judging,” Louis hastily corrected himself, fiddling with his wet fringe, feeling the fur-lined hood of his parka dripping on his shoulders, “but you didn’t look like the mainstream kind of person. More like, The Script or something classic to match your old soul.”

The man smiled, so genuinely his cheeks dimpled. Louis stared, taken unawares, as one of his favorite features on an alpha drew reaction in form of a flush of attraction out of him.

“I do like pop. But then again, there’s nothing _generic_ about Queen B.”

And so it started. Twenty minutes, seven knock-knock jokes, nine even worse puns and a lot of teasing from Louis’ part later, they have finally made their way to the cash registers. During the time, Louis had already found out what kind of joke caused the alpha to laugh so loudly a wrinkle appeared over the bridge of his nose, and realized he couldn’t but let it catch on him, allowing laughter scrunch up his face, too, and soon they were clutching their aching stomachs. And, although they had never addressed it, neither quite seemed to want to part ways, as they paid for their purchases in a row. The taller man exchanged some compliments and well-wishes with the cashier whose smile brightened considerably. Louis had never seen anything like it.

“Oh, no,” said the alpha, stuffing last of the mangoes into his bag, “it’s still raining.”

Louis hardly took any notice. Such thing as the _weather_ seemed so trivial right now. “I can offer a lift.”

The alpha blinked at him owlishly.

“Hopping into a stranger’s car shouldn’t be the most impulsive thing you have done in your life. Then again, it’s pretty obvious which one of us possesses the superior physical power,” Louis pointed out. “I’m Louis, if that helps things.”

“What’s in it for me, Louis?”

 _Oh, yeah,_ Louis thought. _Definitely flirting_.

 It had felt good to see those pink lips wrapped around his name.

“Well,” he told him, “you can always continue to civilize me with those random fruit facts of yours. I believe we were discussing mangoes and cancer prevention last.”

“In that case, it’s not a choice at all.” He thrust out one large, ring-laden hand. “I’m Har—Harold.”

“Well, Harharold, the car’s this way.” Louis turned around, but faltered, instead reaching out and flicked the zipper of Harold’s coat. His stomach jumped. “You might want to zip this up. It would be a shame to wet a pretty shirt like that.”

Trying not to imagine what exactly wetting the shirt might look, Louis stalked past him and was both triumphant and disappointed when he heard the unmistakable sound of the zipper. The alpha started his long-legged stride after him and caught up with the omega before Louis had managed to reach the automatic doors.

Once they stepped outside, Harold tried to become one with the coat, his green beanie merely peeking over the collar. Which was why he didn’t see Louis pressing his lips tightly together and shaking his head towards the skies, regretting it once he got a drop in his eye.

The dark-clothed figures had changed into a crowd of colorful umbrella’s here and there while they had been in the shop, and the streets were slick and black with rain.

“This is top secret, by the way,” Louis said as he led the way, slipping past an ajar rusty gate, wondering if Harold thought he was being led to be murdered in a dark alleyway. “It’s a World War III out here with the parking space, but I have a special spot behind this gym, and I intend to keep it that way.”

At the sight of his car, Louis dug for his keys, shooting glances at a wet Harold, and soon the car unlocked its doors with a happy beep.

He stepped in.

And only realized the problem when Harold opened the door, but didn’t come in. Louis dashed to gather up the folders and papers haphazardly scattered all over the passenger seat in his arms, sliding them to the backseats. He pretended not to hear the sound of half of them dropping onto the floor when he turned to face Harold with a beaming grin.

“Sorry, school work,” he explained to the alpha who looked amused. “Not that I’m the one doing the homework, of course. I’m a teacher.”

Harry chuckled, “You could have passed for a grad student,” and slid in.

The rain drummed onto the roof of the car, the windshield was shot through with rivulets of water, distorting his view of the streets. Louis turned the key in the ignition and turned on the wipers. He was very aware of the eyes that followed his every movement.

“Aren’t you cold?” Harold asked, looking at him inquisitively.

Louis wondered what he saw. He knew the way people looked at him on the streets—sometimes even the teens in his class—had believed his mother when she had called him her “beautiful boy” but he had no idea what his looks meant to this alpha. Did Harold see in him someone who had dressed too scarcely, shivering, hair littered with pearly drops of water, and perhaps even someone who he pitied? Did he see someone he wanted to cherish and protect?

“Are you going to offer me a scarf or something?” he asked. “Because I am not gonna wear that coat.” He flicked on the turn signal. “Keep your sack of potatoes on, Curly.”

He peeled off the curb and put the heater on. For the next few minutes the silence stretched. It made Louis think he had said something wrong.

Harold, long legs haphazardly tucked, didn’t look nearly as tall as he had when surrounded by the shelves, and his scent, now filling the car along with the warmth, was even more potent. Louis watched Harold push his right sleeve up to his elbow, pausing before doing the same with the left, revealing an impressive number of rather quirky tattoos that littered his forearm.

“So you’re one of _those_ ,” Louis blurted out.

Harold jumped in his seat. “Pardon?”

“One of those frivolous self-decorators, who don’t look at the big picture, but get a meaningful tattoo here and there.” The cars before them stopped at a red light, and Louis could turn to look at Harold imploringly. “At least I hope they are important. Please don’t say you drunk tattooed a mermaid’s boobs on a dare.”

As he talked, Harold seemed to relax.

“She has a third base, too,” Harold chuckled.

Louis wrinkled his nose. “I can see that.”

“But I do have a drunk tattoo,” the alpha continued. “It’s pretty recent.” He smirked and winked. “I would show you, if it didn’t result in a fine for indecent exposure.”

The car jerked. Louis swallowed away the dryness of his throat, and rasped, “Better keep your pants on as well.”

Harold, looking like the cat that got the cream, turned to look out of the window. The cars started to move again. Louis kept himself busy with the stubborn gear stick.

Another silence stretched, and Louis wished there was a sound, any sound, to fill it, so he turned on the radio. The DJ’s voice filled the small space.

_“…the Billboard chart-topper, who’s currently taking it easy for a year and a half. Styles announced his break…nine months ago, wasn’t it?”_

_“Yes. Quite right, Dave.”_ This voice belonged to a woman, and she sounded amused. _“Mr. Styles’ been on a_ hiatus _since March.”_

Beside him, Harold let out a snort.

 _“Thank you, Julia.”_ Dave chuckled _. “And now for that song we promised. Requested by the fans who, I believe, started this whole fan release project because this absolute jam we are going to play next was never a single, and unfortunately was brushed aside…but it happens to be a pretty great song. Here comes Harry Styles and_ 5479 miles _. And Harry, if you are listening, please return our hearts.”_

“Sounds dedicated,” Louis said as the opening chords started to blare through the stereo. “He must be one hell of a special pop star.”

Harold was silent.

“Sorry, are you a fan? I didn’t mean it in a bad way, he—”

“I’m not sore.”

Then, they both seemed to catch on the double meaning and burst into laughter together. Their chuckles, even after they faded, seemed to have left Harold less fidgety. Still, Louis chose to talk about something safe—which was, ironically, the weather. Apparently Harold lived year-round in the sunny domain of Los Angeles where he had been born and raised as the son of a business woman. He talked about his “home”, which had a pool, a tea house, an honest-to-God guest _house_ , and four bathrooms the size of Louis’ studio.

 It made him a little dizzy thinking that in any other scene, they wouldn’t have crossed paths at all…

“—and the view is very green, like, with low stone fences, trimmed hedges and a small stream through the grounds,” Harold was finishing his description on the patio and pool.

“Are you _showing off?”_ Louis asked, amused.

Harold blushed, and this time Louis felt no urge to tease him.

Maybe they would have met somewhere in Calabasas, waiting to get their fix of caffeine. Louis would have dropped a dollar, and Harold, being ever the gentleman, would have kneeled to hand it back to him. What would Harold have said, then? Would he have just hoped there had been one Louis less between him and his morning coffee?

“Well,” Louis said when they eventually pulled up beside the curb of his apartment building, “here we are.”

Harold pinned him with that intense look of his. “Thank you.”

Louis didn’t know how to answer. You’re welcome, didn’t seem to be enough, taken the alpha’s serious tone. He fidgeted. And his eyes fell on his umbrella, half tucked under the passenger seat. “You, um,” Louis started, staring at the object over Harold’s knees. “It’s still raining. The least I could do is to let you borrow my umbrella.”

“I couldn’t—no!” Harold looked horrified. “I’m not going to be able to return it. And you’ll get wet.”

“I live here. It’ll take all of two minutes for me to get inside with the deli. You, on the other hand, live at least another five minutes away, which is enough time for the rain to soak through,” Louis pointed out. “Take the umbrella.”

In the end, much to Louis’ satisfaction, Harold indeed ended up walking the rest of the way with the umbrella. His destination was ‘just down the road’, perhaps the Soho House. Louis—arm tingling where the alpha’s grateful hand had squeezed him in gratitude just seconds before, too briefly for him to appreciate it fully—watched the broad but hunched shoulders become distant through the wet windshield. They would probably never meet. It was a shame. He was interesting. For an alpha.

 _Oh, well_ , Louis thought, and tried not to feel like a deflated balloon.

His phone rang. When he fished for it from his pocket, Louis saw a twenty-dollar bill on the seat next to him. He sighed, glancing at the Harold-less street, and answered the call.

“Hi, hon,” said his mum. “How was school?”

“You make it sound like I’m the one doing the learning.”

“You know what they say about old habits. I must still be in denial that two of my little ones have moved away.”

“Lottie lives in London. It’s a little bit closer than Chicago.” Louis picked up the bill, fiddling with its crinkly corners, staring out into space. “But I’m good. Busy. The school’s still in need of funding, and the pressure is on me to produce good enough a play to bait more people into the shows than what’s been the average.”

“You’ll do wonderfully.”

He smiled. Two and a half decades of hearing Jay support him hadn’t lessened his instant, sympathetic response to the praise. “Thanks, mum.”

“Are you sleeping well?”

“As good as it gets in that eggshell of an apartment. I bought the earplugs, by the way. Finally. The people of number 45 are still having drunken parties every other night. Bloody frats.”

“I remember when you used to party every other night, go outside with your friends and smuggle beer to your little lad gatherings at the Hudson’s fields. And don’t think I don’t know about your weed stash in the Tupperware container that magically disappeared from the dishwasher one day, never to be seen again.”

“I would like to be excluded from this party narrative.”

“Didn’t you have a party this month?”

“The Drama Club’s Christmas party.” There, of course, was no such thing as Drama Club; he just knew the persons involved would hate that name, so DC it was. “Free booze. It will likely help me cope with the fact that the principal is a bigoted prick—”

“Louis,” his mother chastened.

 “—who still insist rehearsing for this spring’s school play is an extracurricular activity that happens after bloody five o’clock,” he continued to rant over her, conscious how stupid me must look, arguing alone in the car. “And don’t ‘Louis’ me, mum. You’re starting to sound like Liam.”

“Maybe he has a point. That young man has his priorities sorted out.”

“Liam the church boy,” he muttered under his breath, and twisted his body to collect the fallen papers from under the seats, and from the floor, hoping they wouldn’t wrinkle too much when stuffing them into his back bag.

“Have you made any new friends?”

With every call came that concerned question. How could a social boy like him not have an army of buddies? Maybe her confusion was not unfounded.

“Not any decent ones, no.” He groped for a paper someone had spilled coffee on from the looks of it. At least it wouldn’t be his fault this time. “Besides, all of the teachers are mated, knocked up, or on their way there while I’m still desperately single. We just simply have nothing to talk about. Ah-hah!” He caught the paper, and repositioned his iPhone. “I might as well have chosen New York. At least there you can scout around for love interest like a feral cat with other desperately lonely people, Carrie-Bradshaw-style, and seem sane.”

“What about the Chemistry teacher? Chris, wasn’t he?”

“Hours of element jokes? No thank you. Besides, I think he has the hots for me. Creepy hots.”

He stopped there. He had come terribly close to the taboo of mating. Moaning about his loneliness always seemed pointless to him, although he slipped often. What good was moaning to his mum about his mateless state? It didn’t change anything. It didn’t make an alpha appear. In fact, it only served to make him bitterer, and worsen his nowadays constant bitch face, he was told.

He got out of the car, considering his chances of catching a cold if he stopped for a quick smoke.

“You seem…distressed.” His mother sounds concerned. It’s this detail, the worry slipping into her voice, that brings him back into the moment. “Does it have something to do with a boy?”

Louis suddenly felt as if five pairs of eyes were on him, but when he looked up, every pedestrian still had their eyes focused on the horizon.

“Boy?” he echoed. “I’m quite sure any person I’ve been recently into would detest that.”

“All right.” He heard her smile through the line. “Who’s the alpha?”

Louis sighed, defeated.

 

***

 

**A week later…**

 

By the time Louis reached the beach, the sleet had melted.

Beams of pale sunlight were burning away the wet flakes of snow, but the ground refused to dry. Louis was walking past the cluster of leafless trees toward North Avenue Beach, and stepped off the dirt road, taking a shortcut through the grass.

Suddenly, previously hidden by a tree trunk, he noticed a familiar figure, this time clad in a more form fitting black pea coat, although he had not abandoned his green beanie. He was trying to build a sand castle, no doubt freezing his fingers off. His hands were gloveless, currently digging deep into the moist, grey-brown sand.

“You,” Louis whispered, and stilled.

The night after he had seen Harold, he had laid awake for hours, pondering the events that had taken place, and thinking just how odd the alpha’s manners—his willingness to receive help from an omega, to name one—were for his status. He valued humility highly. An alpha who wasn’t afraid to play himself down, settled down—in the words of his mother.

“Oi!” He raised his voice, loud enough to carry over the hundred feet or so. “Harold!”

The alpha turned, far too slowly for someone who had just been called by name. He smiled, dimples visible even from a distance, once he saw Louis. He stood up, and was rubbing his hands against his thighs when Louis walked over.

“The umbrella boy!” Harold exclaimed, pushing his sunglasses up to squint at him, and winced, hands flying to his back. He muttered to himself something that sounded like, “Shouldn’t crawl in my age. Not a baby anymore, are you?”

Louis’ brows furrowed both in concern, and in displeasure for being nicknamed Umbrella Boy. He would have much rather been “the hot omega from the deli” or “the mysterious saint”.

But, then again, the tall, dark and mysterious act had never been his cup of tea.

“I remember you. Louis, wasn’t it?”

“And I guess you remember all the pretty faces?”

Harold’s eyes sparkled. “Especially the pretty faces.”

He then proceeded to brush away the bits of sand from his hands, rubbing them together, and picking the underside of his nails with his brows angled into a mask of concentration.

“I think I should rinse these with water…” he said, turning them palm up, palm down.

He started to walk towards the waterline. Louis let his eyes roam over his figure in peace. The black coat was definitely hugging the planes of his back in ways the hideous brown one could have never dreamed of, and the yo-yoing from one extremity to another—from endearing to striking—made Louis dizzy, and very perplexingly aroused. He started after him as if pulled by an invisible string.

Harold looked back over his shoulder, perhaps to check if he was following, and Louis startled at being caught out looking. He made a show of giving his head a shake and fixing his fringe, pretending he had been lost in thought.

“Funny,” Harold started, not sounding like he had caught him checking out his rear. “We’ve met twice now, I owe you an umbrella and a ride home, and we don’t know each other’s favorite colors.”

Louis huffed, “I don’t think I have one.”

“So they all say—no, let me guess!” Harold turned to look at him, searching. Then he snapped his fingers and, with his face glowing in excitement, he cried, “Green!”

Louis looked from his sparkling eyes to his wide, dimpled smile that would go away if he told him he was wrong, and found himself thinking that green wasn’t so bad, in the end. “Yeah,” he told him, and angled his brows into a surprised face. “How did you know?”

At that point Harold’s grin was so wide it bordered on silly as he continued to walk backwards.

“Instinct!” he said, but then his lips started to tremble as though a secret was fighting to be released. “Your phone case is green,” he explained. “That is the most secure place to start guessing.”

“Oh?” was the only thing Louis managed to say. His phone was always in his _back_ pocket. “And yours?”

“My phone case or my favorite color?” Harold asked. “Actually, it’s one and the same. I think it’s discriminating against other colors to choose just one.” Louis watched him fish his phone out of his tight, tight jeans. When he flipped it over, the back showed a rainbow. Something in Louis’ stomach fluttered. “Plus, you won’t get tired of it this way.”

“How do you get _tired_ of it if it’s your favorite?”

“The same way you can’t eat Finding Dory cookies every day for breakfast even though they are good.”

“Only you,” Louis laughed and shook his head. “How are those even related?” Louis sniffed. “For a cookie lover, you look…”

“Yes?”

All of a sudden, Louis couldn’t look away from the hypnotic, slowly blinking green eyes.

“Tired, actually. Did your posh bed at Soho have a pea hidden under all the mattresses? Or worse, the pillow was two feathers short?”

“No, the hotel’s business is still booming, I suppose. I had a party I was supposed to attend, and ended up staying up late. Shaking hands, making connections, kissing some asses. Being fabulous all day every day is exhausting.” It was said so dryly Louis found nothing conceited in it. “You know the like.”

“How strenuous. Did they make you stir your own martinis? Or maybe one of your gorillas got sick and you needed to run away from the gold diggers?”

“The latter, actually.”

“Wait. You actually have a security guard? All day? As in twenty-four seven?”

“Only when I’m in public, but yes.”

Harold crouched, the tips of his black boots just inches away from the water, and cupped it with his hands. Louis watched as he cleaned each finger, removing some of the rings.

“I see,” said Louis weakly. “I feel like there’s been an alien invasion and I’m suddenly shoved into all these strange situations where the culture shock hits me like a ton of bricks. Is there anything in your posh world that manages to take you by surprise, or has your wealth made you completely unflappable?”

Harold looked thoughtful, drying his hands by fluttering them like he was about to take off.

“I have yet to insure a body part. Fame does get you a little bent out of shape in terms of what’s important.”

“Welcome to United States of America.”

It was getting lighter. The sun was rising higher above the horizon over the water in the east. Behind them, the sun glinted in the glassy sides of the skyscrapers. Louis felt its warmth on his dark joggers.

“What brought you to Chicago?” asked Harold, gesturing at Louis to join him in walking along the waterline. “You said you were teaching, but…can’t you do that in UK?”

“I teach drama.” Louis fell into step beside him. “I mean, America is where Hollywood is. Here it’s more about quantity than quality. It’s handy. On the downside, I had to leave my family and England behind. For now.”

Harold pursed his lips.

“I’m afraid I can’t say I know what you feel—a couple months long trips excluded. My family moved here before I was born.”

“I thought so.”

“How so?”

 “Sometimes you speak like an American, and then the next second, when you speak with emotion, you sound so British, I,” Louis halted, digging his gloved hand deep into his pockets. He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Isn’t it unfair that you know what I’m doing, but I don’t know anything about you at all?”

Harold opened his mouth.

“No! Let me do the guessing this time around.” Under the excuse he now had for checking Harold out, Louis let his eyes travel unhurriedly from the beanie to the Chelsea boots. “Your work has something to do with having to sell the public an image of yourself. You have that kind of air about you,” Louis waved his hand at him, “style, charisma, and charm. Model?”

“I do shootings sometimes, yes, but I’m not really a model.”

“Darn. Reality TV star?”

“Nope.”

Louis sighed, and carded his gloved fingers through his hair. The static caused them to stand up.

“Then how ‘bout a beauty, um. What are those things?” He snapped his fingers near his face. “Those who do yoga, weird face mask, and all that healthy detox shit…”

“Beauty gurus?”

“Yes, that’s the one!” Louis exclaimed in delight, half sure the man was caught now. “How could I forget? Lottie—that’s my sister—talked my ear off about them.”

Harold was sniggering. “I’m not one of those, either.”

Louis gave up. “A hint?” he asked. “No games. I am genuinely curious. Please,” he dragged out the last word. Harold didn’t seem to know where to look. Wind blew his long hair across his face; he pushed it back. The unzipped coat flapped, wind teasing the opening. Louis shivered.

“Let’s say I’m in the entertainment industry.”

Louis waited for the rest of the clue, but it never came. Harold shifted to watching a little girl doing cartwheels about a hundred yards from them with a fond smile.

“Aw, c’mon!” Louis complained. “That’s too broad. You have to do better than that! That’s, like,” he gestured wildly, “a billion job possibilities.”

“You didn’t define what sort of ‘hint’ you were looking for,” Harold encountered.

“Oooh,” Louis shook his finger at him, “now you’re on dangerous waters, mister.”

“Scary,” Harold mocked. He showed Louis his steady fingers. “I shake with fear of your 5’6 built and— _ouch!“_

Louis had tweaked the nipple tenting fabric of the white t-shirt, seen through his open jacket. The alpha rubbed it, looking wounded.

“You pinched me,” he said, unnecessarily, looking down at his chest with clinical interest. “It might be fatal. It’s your fault if it falls off.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“It is known to happen! I read about it once. Luckily for you, I have spare ones.”

Louis had no idea what he was talking about. He could feel, through the thin shoe sole, how every grain of sand moved under his step. Their meandering trail of footprints stayed firm for long after, Harold’s recognizable in how his heels had dug deeper into the sand.

“Don’t say no one has ever done that to you,” said Louis. “You do have siblings, right?”

“Only one. Sister, I mean.”

“I have five of those. Four of them omegas, one too young to say. And one little brother. I had always wanted one, and frankly I was over the moon when mum came back from the hospital with the younger twins.”

“Sounds wicked. I’ve always liked the idea of a large fam—” Harold’s expression freezes. _“Younger_ twins?”

“Yeah, we’ve got two sets. Runs in the family.”

Harold’s eyes widened. His voice was rougher when he said, “Oh, well that’s a good—”

But whatever was good about something, Louis never heard, because at the same time the girl who had been doing the cartwheels ran to them. Louis would’ve guessed her to be around seven years old. Harold picked her up, balancing the little girl on his hip. In Harold’s arms, the little girl was just at Louis’ eye level, and she took full advantage of it.

“This is Lux,” introduced Harold, jostling the girl higher, “my goddaughter. Lux, say hello to Louis.”

“Hullo.”

“Hi.”. Louis beamed at her widely; an unfortunate, telltale baby fever expression. “What a pretty name you have. You must be a smart girl, right?” He couldn’t hold back his triumphant smirk. “Can you tell me what Uncle Harold does for a living?”

Harold, now cornered, looked furious with himself, although the tightness of his facial muscles told Louis he might have been either a bit impressed or amused. Lux, after being called clever, had seemingly warmed up to Louis.

“Mummy says he struts,” she furrowed her brow, “but mummy doesn’t let me watch when Harry struts his stuff in his hit-it boots.”

The last part was said as innocently as only a child could manage when quoting an adult, and didn’t know what it meant. Louis had a hand clamped over his mouth, Harold trying to hide his face behind the large tuft of Lux’s beanie. Its pale color only brought out his pinked cheeks.

“Why don’t you finish that sand castle? Let’s show Louis how pretty the Sand Princess’ tower is.”

“Yes!”

Harold let her slide down his side, brushing her coat down where it had ridden up. They watched Lux run, tassels swinging, to the lopsided sand castle. As soon as she was out of hearing distance, Louis burst out, “Oh my God,” and a rib-bruising laugh escaped from his mouth.

Harold looked torn between mortification and mirth, but, looking at Louis’ shaking shoulders, the latter won over. A honk-like sound came out, probably from all the way from deep in his chest, and his startled face caused Louis to laugh harder still.

Harold, when they regained control of their breathing, told Louis, “I’ve tried to tell them to stop teasing, but they like torturing me.” he shrugged exaggeratedly as if to say: _What can you do?_

 “’Harry’ is too mainstream for you?” Louis cheeked. There was a wet sand print on Harold’s t-shirt, under which the silhouette of something large and black could be seen through the fabric. Louis had a hard time tearing his eyes off the way Lux’s weight had stretched the collar.

Harold pouted, although—thank god—glowing at the teasing. “I’m not _that_ desperate to be set apart.”

“I know,” Louis agreed hastily. “You are—”

He might have called him something embarrassing like perfect, or hot, or delicious. Thankfully he was saved by something hitting his shin; something that was now soaking through his sweats. The girl not far away from looked innocent, but satisfied.

Harold’s jaw dropped.

“Oh my—I’m so sorry.” He gaped at Lux incredulously. “I don’t know what came into her. I swear she’s usually an angel, although she can be jealous when she’s not the center of attention.”

Then his brain seemed to catch up with his mouth, and his cheeks pinked.

“Oh, it’s all r— _what are you doing?”_

Harold had kneeled down to brush the wet sand away. Even through Louis’ trousers, his touch raised goosebumps on the omega’s skin. It seemed so ordinary, yet domestic, that he couldn’t help but imagine seeing this—Harold’s hair falling like a dark curtain in front of his face—on a daily basis.

He goggled himself. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with his _mind?_

He forced himself to not think about it—he's very good at that, not thinking about things until they start gnawing at his nerves so painfully they are impossible to ignore. Was he still flirting? Or would Louis, if these occasional run-ins continued, next stumble upon Harold, hands tangled in some female omega’s hair and kissing each other like they were starved? And really, who said someone like that was single in the first place?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the deep, British voice.

“You had sand on them,” Harold stated unnecessarily as he straightened, and sunk his fingers into that thick mane of his. He didn’t step back. The way Louis’ heart sped at that, scared the crap out of him, big time. Should he ask him on a date? No. He had no illusion about what he looked like in his sweats, and bedhead. No dates. He had had enough of those.

Louis took a step back.

Harold’s hand shot out and caught his wrist, fingers were icy cold from the lake water. Looking down at his hand, Louis realized suddenly how small his looked beside Harold’s. Nobody’s hand felt quite like Harold’s.

And that was exactly the moment Louis’ phone alerted him with the 30-minute warning he had set before his walk.

They sprung further apart.

“I didn’t…” Harold started, boots digging into the sand he suddenly found so interesting. He was biting his lip. “You have to go?”

“Yeah. Not that I…” Louis cleared his throat. “I—uh—got to go—class in an hour, yeah.”

“Have a nice day, then.”

“Yeah. Thanks. You too.”

Louis stumbled away. When he looked back, despite swearing not to, Harold was looking back at him, seemingly not realizing Lux was tugging at his arm vigorously. Then, he rounded the corner, and the duo disappeared from sight. He let out a groan of frustration.

 

***

 

The first thing Louis did after coming home from work was to let his back bag drop onto the floor, drag his feet further into his studio apartment, and unzip his hoodie that he promptly flung over the couch.

“Tea,” he said, snapping his lips together. “I need a really strong tea.”

 In the kitchen, he shoved empty food containers and bottles aside and drew the electric kettle—his first investment—closer, half filling it with water and switching it on. Then, he picked up his phone and listened to the noise of the call mix with the gurgle of the steadily heating water.

“I need some advice, and please don’t use my moment of weakness to brag about anything,” he told the person on the other end of the phone.

It was unsurprising that, in response, Louis’ sister, Lottie, could only blink at the confession, taken aback by the lack of ‘Hello’.

“Advice?” came her voice, tinny through the line. “About what? If you have done something illegal, I’m not paying the bail.”

“That was one time, Lottie,” Louis said, offended. “And at the time, I thought pressing nine was funny when the phone said ‘Don’t press nine.’ How could I have known it wasn’t illegal to accidentally speed dial 999. I was thirteen!”

“So what is this about then?”

“How much time do you have?”

“Oh, so it’s that kind of a problem.” Louis heard her shut a door, giving him privacy from her boyfriend who probably had been listening in. “This wouldn’t be about the alpha you met the other day, hm? Mum said she had never heard someone get under your skin like that. And you had known each other only for _an hour.”_

Louis groaned, “Snitch.”

“Is he hot? I bet he’s right your type to get your knickers twisted like this.”

Green eyes and pouty lips flashed through Louis’ mind, and he shook his head like a wet dog to rid himself of the image. “I am not giving you the answer to that.”

“He totally is, isn’t he? This isn’t about pulling, you’re actually asking me for _dating advice_. You have a crush on him.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Louis was quick to scoff. “You and mum sound more affected than I am. We just talked today.”

“Ooooh, so you met again? Did he give the umbrella back?”

“What? No, it was by chance. I don’t think neither of us could have planned it. He had his goddaughter with him at the beach,” Louis told her, hearing the kettle turn off, and searching for his cup, which he found under a sports magazine. “And you can stop making ‘ooh’s now, I’m not _that_ weak for alphas handling kids well. But. You should see him, Lots, the way he just has this way of, of looking at you, direct and unwavering. It raises the hairs on your arms.”

Louis thought that’s the wedding march Lottie was humming to now.

“Stop that.” He’s officially laughing. Damn. “It’s not that serious. Maybe I’m never going to see him again.”

“You want to, though. What is there to risk besides being wrong about him, and few hours’ worth of bad dates?”

Louis threw his arms up, tea mug and all, in the air in exasperation.

“Just because of that, _if_ I were to go on a date with him and it expectedly goes downhill, you’re the one that calls me to ‘inform about a pressing emergency’. What code should I text? Mayday?”

“That,” Lottie said, “is my trick. Back off.”

Louis smiled, pouring the hot water into the mug and threw the tea bag in, watching it sink to the bottom as it grew wetter. The swirls of golden brown soon colored the liquid.

Theater, the art of putting oneself into someone else’s shoes on a stage, had been his area of study ever since he had played a dancing tree in a school play at age seven. To stop being himself, and play someone else with much bigger problems than an intact v-card or slight acne, had always fascinated him, and even his psychology teacher had said he had a natural talent to get into someone’s psyche. Why, then, was he so inept at reading those who he—hypothetically—wished to date?

“But, really,” he told her, tugging his tea bag impatiently to speed the dissolving, “I have no wish to go on a bad date.”

“But you would, if it was good? I thought you were done with alphas.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past week.”

“And I’m telling you you’re stupid,” said Lottie. “Some relationships are worth having even if they end in heartbreak. Do you know how much I have learned from them, how much my experience about what to expect from an alpha, and what to look for helped me in finding my mate. Every cheap date had a shit load of use when I compared them to the Real Thing.”

A thick silence followed. Louis gazed out of the small kitchen window. For an overpriced box of cement, his floor did have a decent view, Louis thought as he regarded the sunrise. It was cold outside but the mug in his hands was warm, smelling heavenly.

“Since when have you been the wiser sibling?”

“Since you left the job to me.”

Louis swallowed. Guilt turned the tea sour.

Distressed, Lottie quickly soothed, “Sorry. I meant that as a joke, Lou. I swear.” Louis tried to let her know it was alright, but maybe a bit too fresh to joke so lightly about. “None of us blame you for having ambition. America, Lou, that’s brilliant…and speaking of Americans…”

Louis smiled at her subtle-as-a-punch-to-the-face transition back to the subject, feeling grateful.

“What if he isn’t interested if I do ask? I don’t feel like embarrassing myself in front of someone like…someone like… _that,”_ he finished weakly.

“Did you listen to anything you told mum or were you just running your mouth as usual, idiot?”

He had. But that had been his recollection of the events. Maybe his memory was reading too much into it all. Harold seemed like that type of person who flirted without real weight behind his words.

“I thought I might be projecting my own wishes…”

“The guy sounded like he would gather up your stinky socks and do both your dishes if you just gave him the time of the day.”

“What if—”

“I mean, ‘What’s in it for me,’” she quoted with incredible accuracy—just how many times had she talked this through with mum? “I fail to see how else you should read that than ´Please I can’t get any more obvious that I wanna be your baby daddy.’”

Louis sighed. Surrendering. Somewhere in the room with Lottie, a dog barked. When she moved closer to it, the speaker got overloaded with sound. Lottie let out a cooing sound, picking it up.

To him, she said, “And, by the way, when you pick a godparent for your firstborn, I hope you take this into consideration. Bye.”

The dog’s loud, happy panting was the last thing he heard. She had hung up.

 

***

 

After several uneventful hours, Louis had to admit that some of the fun of having free booze was wearing off

The Drama Club had really invested in the party this year, and rented out a ballroom on the roof of a pricy hotel at a discount because of a last minute cancellation—and thanks to some of their rare snobby elite members with rich daddies and celeb connections. So, there Louis was, in the midst of the party, leaning to the bar, and staring at his empty pint.

“Another?” asked the bartender, hand already poised on the beer tap.

“Yes, please.”

The young man prepared him a second pint of pale ale in a fresh glass. He was cute in the wiry sort of way, Louis guessed, but the angle of his eyebrows reminded him of Harold, and that was painful.

As it had appeared, finding a person you know only by name was harder than finding the figurative needle in the haystack. So far he had changed his route to school—any errand had been an excuse to wander—to go past some of the hotels in the hope that he would run into him like before. But, like watched pot never boiled, Harold couldn’t be found when actively looking for him.

As Louis sat there drinking his beer, his thoughts occupied by a certain somebody, whose presence he could suddenly sense everywhere. Was that him, bursting into honking laughter like that? And whose was that curly hair, shorter cut? Was that green beanie a beret instead? And then—

His eyes flickered over familiar features, and his heart leaped. _Could it be…?_

He twirled fully around on the stool but when he scanned the crowd again, there were no curls there.

“Typical.” Louis took a sip of his beer. He looked down at his own condensation-warped reflection on the glass and murmured, “Get over yourself. We talked about this,” at it.

The bartender wiped the spotless counter fixedly. Louis was just starting to regret coming there when a large hand settled on his shoulder, uninvited.

Louis had imagined before, like tonight before joining a party full of drunken alphas, what he would do if one of them ever grabbed him. How he would use his sharpest points—elbows, heels, knees—to their tender spots. Perhaps stay around long enough to spit on their face or say something clever. But.

The hand, which he had glanced on reflex to glare at its audacity, was one he had seen; one decorated with an aquamarine stone sitting above a sturdy knuckle and chipped nail polish. Who else. Releasing his death-grip around the glass of beer, Louis said, “Hello, Harold.”

“Sorry.” The voice was as drowsy as it was deliciously familiar. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 _I wasn’t scared_ , Louis would have felt compulsory to argue at anyone else, but there was no other explanation to the rabbiting of his heart when the air around him finally filled with the missed scent, gone woodsy with perspiration.

Harold said, “This must be fate.”

He was wearing a billowy white button-up, suit jacket discarded—which looked shiny and unkind to the heat of hundreds of bodies—pin-striped trousers, and a black scarf. His curls were finally free of the beanie, pushed back from his forehead, and curling wildly over his collarbones.

Louis let his eyes roam one last time, before saying, “If you believe in it.”

Harold gave him a long look. “You don’t have a favorite color, you don’t believe in lucky numbers, _and_ you are cynical about destiny. Are you sure I am the strange one here?”

Louis didn’t answer right away, choosing to take a sip of his beer instead. Harold leaned against the bar, wrist watch reflecting the light of the LED tape circling the counter, but remained standing.

“None of your business,” Louis said, swirling the beer around in his glass. His words had no heat. “Having preferences has never ended well.”

“And,” Harold asked, peering down at him, “that is your personal opinion on the matter?”

Louis pretended to have an acute, selective hearing problem. He felt naked and exposed, though; the suit jacket was suddenly too tight around his shoulders.

“You look uncomfortable,” Harold observed.

“I’m not used to such successful corporate things,” Louis lied easily, telling a half-truth. “I mean, this is America, everything is bigger and showier here, but you can take me out of the small, northern English town, but you can’t take the small town out of me.”

To imply that he was there only for the free drinks, Louis leaned his elbow to the bar, stool complaining, and his sleeve caught on the circular stains left by his pints. His limbs felt loose from the alcohol.

Harold copied him, sliding onto the adjacent stool. He didn’t master the art of nonchalance, though, looking like _that_. “Which town?”

“Doncaster. In Yorkshire,”

“Really?” Harold looked around, eyes circling the space from the wraparound floor to ceiling windows and fitted carpet to the people in expensive cocktail dresses, and to the chandelier the size of a small horse hanging from the ceiling eighteen feet above. “I guess it would be a lot to take in for,” he smirked, “a country boy. Although,” he said, looking at Louis’ suit, “you dress better than I expected from a hillbilly.”

Indignantly, Louis said, “Doncaster’s not in the bloody country.”

Harold ignored him, and reached over to Louis. His fingertips brushed along Louis’ waist, watching how the form-fitted jacket hugged the small of his back. He lifted the bottom higher, and caught a glimpse of the swell of Louis’ arse filling the slacks.

“New suit?”

Louis swatted his hands away. “Five years old. Still fits like a glove,” he said, rather more aggressively than he had intended. “I’m a scientific miracle,” he added, in an attempt to turn it into a joke.

Harold snorted. “Why are you here again?”

Louis quirked up a corner of his lip, and gestured at the partygoers with his pint. “See all these cocky little peacocks? Shareholders, theatre owners, actors and actresses. I’ve been a loud,” he grinned filthily, “very loud mouthpiece for their musicals’ promo for two years now. Apparently, that means I can grace their parties with my divine presence.”

“You mean, you bribed and blackmailed students to attend their shows for an A in order to extend the six-week-run.”

Louis winked at him over his glass, and said, “Shhh,” before taking a sip, never looking away from him. Shit. Since when, Louis berated himself, had he aimed dirty jokes at a specific alpha?

Harold tugged his scarf loose, rolling his eyes, and ordered a drink. Louis watched as the young bartender set a small glass containing see-through liquid on the bar, decorated with a short, black straw and lime slices, both in the drink and on the rim.

“I love a good caipirinha,” said Harold, “although it would taste even better if it were fifty degrees warmer and I could see Christ the Redeemer from that window.” He waved a lazy hand to the closest.

“That’s a long way to travel for a caipirinha.”

Harold picked up his straw, played with it until he chose to just chew it with his back teeth. “Frequent flyer miles come in handy. Although, I did arrive at the statue via bread van, actually.”

Louis wondered if the drink had got right to his head already. His was, thanks to an empty stomach, and he could feel himself reaching a state of mind where bagging someone of Harold’s league seemed plausible.

He drained his glass, Harold sighing.

“Ah, there it is,” Louis said. “That weary sigh.” If there was one thing Louis hated, it was being told what not to do. Because he was young, because he was too short, because he was an omega—or any other stupid excuse. “You think I drink too much for an omega who should be popping out healthy babies.”

“I was mainly concerned how your pace has increased since I got here.”

“I’m not,” Louis enunciated slowly, puffing his chest out, “a slob.”

Harold plugged the straw out of his drink, maintaining the eye contact, and brought the glass to his lips, taking a large gulp. Making a point. Louis appreciated him even more.

“So,” Harold said when he set the already sweating glass down, “what happened to make you so adamant on turning your nose up at my ideas of some people just being _meant_ for each other?”

How Harold managed to make it sound something other than corny was lost on Louis.

“I don’t know. ’Course I must have, at some point, thought of it. The general idea of it, at least, if not specifically for me or you or them. I _have_ tried. Nothing ‘clicked’, if you know what I mean.”

Harold frowned. He didn’t necessarily like the tone Louis had used; sounding like he recited them as if by routine.

“The perfect relationship is a funny thing. It’s not something one does actively. The heart knows when the right one comes across.”

Louis’ hands tightened on the edge of the bar. He ridiculously felt like standing up, as if that could gain some height on him. “You truly believe in that, don’t you?” he asked, mystified.

“I do. I could have chosen any of all the grocery stores in Chicago, yet I ended up in the same one with you. _If_ I had not eaten all the cheese, I wouldn’t have even needed to restock. _If_ the weather had been nicer, I wouldn’t have gotten wet enough to raise your pity,” Harold explained, a flush on his cheeks and a glitter in his eyes; perhaps not just from the alcohol. “You see? I like to think it was fate that drew me to you.”

The words crept through the haze of two pints slowly, teasing Louis’ tipsy mind. If one reached like that, he thought, and made a fuss out of a leaf dropping to the left instead of right, no wonder people believed in horoscopes.

“What?” asked Harold. “Is there something on my face?”

“Sorry. I’m just curious, is all. Never met someone like you in my life after all.”

“And,” he grinned filthily, “have you gotten an eyeful, then?”

“Are you fishing for a compliment?”

"Maybe." Harold bit his lip. The ice cubes clinked in his glass as he swirled the liquid around absentmindedly. "So…why Louis? I feel like there’s a story behind it. why is the ‘s’ silent?"

Louis got the feeling Harold had asked that simply for the sake of asking _something_.

"It’s boring. You don’t want to hear it."

"No, please. I’m curious."

“I wasn’t born as Louis, if that’s what you are wondering. Or I was, but that’s not how it was pronounced. Not a week later, mum got a nasty divorce with the guy, and it just happened. It was a bit strange of course, as a kid, to hear adults calling it a French name. I was okay with it, though. And then there was the case of a forgetful football coach who started calling me Lewis, and it stuck.”

“And then?”

“Then, at sixteen, I my geography teacher—who was a dickhead, by the way—insisted on saying my name the wrong way. I refused to give him power and started using it myself. Obviously, I came on top, and he had to admit defeat.”

“Obviously.”

The lighting dimmed suddenly, the paid music act taking the far corner where they had built a small stage. Harold’s eyes turned several shades darker, from bottle green to nearly black, yet the glittering of a smile remained there. A flick of the curly hair sent a waft of something sweet to his way. Louis reached out and took Harold’s hand. It was smooth, not lake-water-cold this time but warm like a cup of tea in hand, and Louis could feel a pulse that had sped at the base of the wrist. Feeling spontaneous, he brought it to his nose, and inhaled.

“Honey and milk?” Louis asked, no daring to look higher than the forearm broken in soft gooseflesh. “Do you always prep yourself for ‘socializing and ass-kissing’ by spreading body milk with a loofa?”

“Damn,” Harold put his other hand to his chest, “it’s like he knows me.”

Their side of the bar got more crowded once the first two songs ended. Just long enough that it was acceptable to restart talking within groups, after nodding to the band that, _yes, we heard you, thanks for coming…now, where were we?_ One woman was getting redder and redder in the face as her glasses emptied, finally writing on coaster with red lipstick, sliding it over to Harold like curling stone. It bounced off Harold’s knuckles, laid lazily next to his second class, and fell behind the counter. At Louis’ look the barman stopped mid-pick up.

Louis told himself he was only protecting Harold from the possibly-explicit content of it.

Louis asked, “Does that happen often?”

“Usually it’s online.”

“Girls calling you daddy and asking you to tie them up with your fancy scarves?” (Harold grimaced.) “Not your thing?” A firm headshake. “What would, then?”

“Something less violent-sounding. What sort of dirty talk would get _you_ going?”

“Turn me on?” Louis let out a breath of amusement. “I’m an omega; you lot ask us to jump, we ask how high. Is there any other choice?” he said. “We are pleasers.”

Harold pulled his hand back which Louis had forgotten holding.

“Don’t say things like that. It’s horrible. How the society has twisted our view of right and wrong by feeding the stereotype, increasing the violence targeted at you when alphas realize you might not like what they believed you liked. You shouldn’t have to please the likes of them.”

Louis looked at him with eyes as wide as saucers. He had never heard Harold talk so fast. “Who are you?”

Harold shrugged. “Just an educated person. I have lived with two omegas all my life.”

Louis’ dropped his gaze to the bar. Of course he would have experienced all the crap thrown at his sister. What did you expect? That he had read about it especially for _you?_ Get a grip, Tomlinson. He, then, frowned, adjusting the slacks stretched over his thighs.

“Ah, darn, this thing’s been digging in me leg all night.”

 _“What’s_ in your pocket?”

“Oh, this?” Louis took it out, and looked down at the small box in his hands, easily mistaken for a ring box, although he knew what it contained. “It’s my mum’s Christmas present. I feel like I’ve been neglecting her.”

“I get the feeling,” Harold said, lowering voice and glancing around. “I bought my mum a candlestick.”

“Candlestick.” Sarcastic.

“It’s a collector’s item,” Harold told him, in the same tone Louis’ mother had used when she told him he couldn’t eat Cheetos for every breakfast. (She had given up after he turned thirteen.) “The vintage shop said it was the only one left.”

Louis started to giggle, trying in vain to cover it behind his hand, but his eyes crinkled at the corners tellingly.

“I,” he gasped, and withdrew, “I need to take a leak before an accident happens.” He looked at the box, contemplating. “Watch it for me, yeah? I might lose the blasted thing, and I can’t afford buying another.”

“Sure.”

He used the time there looking at the mirror and prep talking himself. Maybe he really should ask him on a date…Yeah, yeah. He should do that. One date. If it went wrong, like he suspected, that would be it; just another notch on his bedposts of Bad Choices. He would not let that drag him down.

When he returned, terrified that Harold would have vanished into the party dresses like a cloud of glitter, Harold was where Louis left him. But not alone.

Standing flanked on his both sides was a middle-aged mated pair from the looks of it. The woman must have been around the same age as Louis’ mother. The man was round in the middle, in the welcoming way one’s grandparent might, hair silvered at his temples, near his glasses. Their identities only hit him after Harold leaned closer to the woman and murmured something to her ear. Their close pressed faces were like clones. The older alpha bore no physical resemblance to Harold.

They had not noticed him yet.

Louis had two options: ignore or move closer and be seen retrieving his box. In the end, the almost hundred spent dollars gave the needed boost.

Louis inched closer to Harold from behind. He didn’t let his eyes stray to them, although he knew Harold’s parents were now looking. He made his presence known with a soft, “Harold.”

And although it was a very normal thing to say to get someone’s attention, from the surprised reaction of the mated pair, it was clear they had found something strange in it. Perhaps, Louis thought, he should have tried with the surname he did not have.

“Who’s this,” asked the woman, curiously.

Harold turned around and said, “Lou,” in the most relieved tone imagined. “I thought you had sneaked off and left me to do your money laundering.”

“What?” Then he saw the offered box, and snorted, taking it from a grinning Harold. “Very funny.”

He didn’t see the way Harold’s mother’s eyes followed the object like a hawk.

“Yeah,” said Harold with the air of wanting to close quickly an old subject. “Mum, this is the company. As I told you, I stopped mingling a good while ago, and retired to the bar.”

The words took a while to get through Harry’s mother’s preoccupation with the box.

“You…” The woman’s voice is thick with emotion. “You’ve found someone? Him? Am I finally going to get a son-through-bond?”

Harold looked alarmed, Louis blinked at them in confusion, until he realized they had meant _him_. How on earth had they got so wrong an idea?

“It’s not like that,” Harold answered, twitching. He was prodding the lime slice on the tip of his glass with his straw, and one exceptionally hash jab dropped it to the bottom. He continued impaling it with the black plastic. Harold’s mother waved away what she thought was a casual remark.

“Oh, I’m so happy!” Her hand clasped Harold’s bicep and rubbed the arm comfortingly through the shirt. “Robin and I were worried it would never be ‘the right time’ to for you to settle down, but look at you now.”

“Mum—”

“He’s a real looker this one. Lovely eyes… My, you could cut steak with a facial structure like that.”

“Mum!”

She pouted. “Can’t I be happy for you?”

“Is that all you are?” Louis joked, sensing Harold’s discomfort in—whatever was actually happening. He was kind of waiting for Harold’s cue to correct them, but so far he hadn’t made a move. If he didn’t know better, he would have said the alpha actually wished for them to get the wrong idea.

Harold’s mother’s attention turned to him. “Oh, my,” she said, and held her slightly pinked cheeks. “How cheeky.”

She fanned her warm cheeks, trying to collect herself.

Eventually, after eight unsteady beats of Louis’ heart, she asked, “What’s your name, love?”

“Louis Tomlinson,” he told her and wondered if he should continue with a polite ‘Look, there’s been a misunderstanding here…” but words failed him when—

 “I actually think we heard of a Louis before, didn’t we Robin? I had no idea he was an omega.” She reached to ruffle Harold’s hair, Louis watching in amusement as he ducked away, looking like he contemplated hiding behind the bar. “You have gotten awfully good at your subtext messages, dear. Saying something and meaning something else altogether.”

“I don’t care for riddles,” said the man, Robin, not unkindly. “Though, I do remember him implying he might not be coming home alone this Christmas.”

Harold’s ears were burning red as his parents ganged up on him. Louis was standing as though glued to the wall-to-wall carpet, and watched the woman light up like a Christmas tree. The way she didn’t bother to cover her happiness reminded Louis almost painfully of a certain someone just a three feet or so from him.

“Really? Oh, that would be wonderful! Are you sure you don’t have anything special planned for just the two of you?”

Louis opened his mouth, but found himself, for the first time in a while, at a loss for words. He didn’t like the feeling.

Robin said, “Isn’t it a bit early?”

The woman swatted him. “Too early? After our boy has landed the capture of a century! They should know what the right time is for themselves. People have become bonded in less.”

She eyed her mate, hinting something at him. Unexpectedly Harold cleared his throat and stood up. He was a head taller than either of the bonded pair. The woman startled.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Harold announced. “Louis?”

“I just came—” He cut himself off when Harold looked at him meaningfully. “That’s a good idea, actually.” He hastily grabbed hold of the back of Harold’s shirt, who shuddered, as if a chill had passed over him. “Excuse us.”

In the bathroom, Harold walked them to the furthest sink before, all of a sudden, blurting out, “Could you spend Christmas with me in Los Angeles? Please.”

Louis blinked at him. “Sorry, say what? I might not have heard it right because for a moment there it sounded an awful lot like you were asking me on a very bizarre date.”

Harold stuffed his hands in the pockets of his slacks. The pressure straightened the immaculate, crisp crease. And from there, Louis eyes drifted to the fly, and the long, pinstripes clad legs that seemed narrowed by the pattern. There was some material bunched at his ankles but other than that, the only time the pinstripes deformed was around—

Truly, all roads led back to Harold’s bulge.

Harold, being either unassuming enough not to notice or too polite to mention, said nothing. He asked again, “Louis Tomlinson, come to LA with me.”

“LA,” echoed Louis. “Aren’t you supposed to be with family during that time?”

Harold’s face fell, then his expression became horrified. “Oh, _oh!_ Of course. Should have thought you would have made other engagements with our own family long ago...”

“I can’t affor—I’m not going to UK.” Louis felt the tips of his ears get warmer. He was far too conscious of the expensively gleaming ankle boots in the line of sight of his bowed head. “I meant why I should wedge my way to yours. Why an earth would you want me to?”

_“Are you kidding?”_

Harold’s disbelieving voice echoed in the space. A cubicle creaked open, a man coming out carefully, as though scenting whether he was stepping in the middle of a fight.

“I love my parents, Louis. Do I seem like that kind of person who has the heart to go back out there now, tell the truth to her face when she’s very possibly discussing what she should put under the Christmas tree for you at such short notice right now?”

To tell the truth, he didn’t. But Louis thought it all could have been much easier if they had pulled the brakes of the train long before it derailed.

“So you _are_ seriously asking me to be your fake boyfriend?” Louis asked, stunned.

The man washing his hands craned his neck at them, Louis giving him a stink eye when he did a double take on Harold. The man put his hands under the tab again. The sound of the running water drowned Harold’s hushed response partly out.

“Yes,” he replied, and now he was smiling a tentative smile, and the way he looked at him was both pleading and challenging. “Think of it as all-expenses-pre-paid holiday.”

“What would that entail?”

It just came out. If he were to go deeper into his motives, he would find his impulsive side heightened by the beer, and his inhibitions down to zero. He certainly hadn’t done it just to see what effect an affirmative of sorts would have on Harold. (It was worth it.)

“Keeping company to me, mostly. Making my mum happy is only the by-product of that. Only if she starts suspecting something, we should act out. My mum jumps quickly into her own conclusions, as you saw. It’s both a blessing and a curse for us, but she will believe me if I tell her she got something wrong.”

Louis noted he didn’t look too happy about his last remark.

He asked, “This is a spur of the moment decision, isn’t it? You haven’t thought this through at all.”

Harold lowered his gaze. Louis sighed.

“All right,” he said.

“All right,” confirmed Harold, after he had scanned Louis’ face for doubt. “I’ll email the finer details when my schedule becomes clearer.”

They left the loo, and only after Louis was safe at home some hours later, did he realize he had never asked if Harold had really included him in his Christmas plans. Probably not; Louis must have been a popular name in the posh circles. Perhaps another Louis had stood him up, and he needed a quick substitution.

Well, Louis though when he cracked open a bottle of Stella, he certainly made the right choice in choosing someone of his level of experience.

 

***

 

“Dude, he’s totally hungover.”

The loud whisper was audible in the room, or just sounded loud to Louis, who stood in front of the class, facing the board, and rubbed at his temples.

“Guilty evening drinking doesn’t count, Johnson,” he told the student in the back row, writing fast. “Besides, whatever I do outside school is none of your business, nor concern.”

The marker squeaked, Louis grimacing.

“Alright people,” he turned to face the class with his hands clasped tight in front of him, “so far you have proposed _Anne’s diary_ and an _Agatha Christie_ murder mystery. I get it that you are taking seriously my advice of needing to bring in the adult audience but…is there any fresher? I mean, come on! You’re seventeen.”

“Grease,” said Lydia Adkins.

“That was done three years ago. But you’re getting warmer.”

“High School Musical?”

“No.”

There was some laughter and murmuring. A new hand had shot up, and Louis pointed at the student to imply her turn to speak.

“Yes?”

“This is unrelated,” she said, which clued Louis to the fact that the following would be _personal_ , “but I watched the Late Late Show last night,”—there were some snorts—"and I heard James Corden’s from the same area as you.”

The smirks were gone. Celebs were interesting, underwhelming or not.

“So just because we are both from UK and have a theatre backgrounds, I must know him? Do you know all drama students in Chicago?” An embarrassed shake of the head. No. “That’s what I thought. But, my mum knows him. She used to chaperone a couple kids on a show he starred in.”

Three more hands raised in the air and, in a desperate attempt to salvage what little they had going, he changed the subject quickly.

“But why won’t we mull it over on Christmas, hmm?” he suggested, and turned his back to them and started writing on the board—questions to rouse talk about the possible theme in groups of four—unbothered by the quality of his joined-up scrawl in the presence of a class more familiar than the new freshmen.

“Okay! Up and about, lads. Start mingling.” He made shooing gestures at the first two rows that groaned, and at a few of the shyer ones who had stayed still.

“He’s absolutely sadistic,” he heard someone whisper. “It’s PMS, I swear.”

Louis’ eyes narrowed.

“Do you know what this PMS will do?”

 Half the class leaned forward to eavesdrop. It was an unusually long and boring hour, and nothing usually happened at half six on a Wednesday afternoon, and everything was right now more exciting than the assignment. The culprit had the decency to look guilty.

Louis grabbed the nearest empty paper to mimic writing a note for the principal. “Dear Mr. Brown, I regret to inform you—”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“Good choice, mate.”

Louis couldn’t say he hadn’t had his fair share of the so-called bad boy reputation that kids seemed to approve nowadays. Not insubordinate outright, but more spastic, always in the movement and wanting other students have a laugh. Teachers had hated him.

“It’s the last day of school before Christmas, guys! Try to contain your holiday spirits—just for half an hour, or Santa won’t give you the good stuff on 25th.”

He dismissed the class twenty minutes later, and ten minutes early. Around then, a text message from “Not Lad Yet ☺” popped up on his phone, reading, “i heard u r off 2 LA **,** dont forget 2 bring me souvenirs m8!!! **”** And Louis watched the last students trail out of the room before sighing and typing a reply.

“No apostrophes,” Louis muttered to himself as the thumbed the keyboard. “No apostrophes, no dots and a shit ton of exclamation marks.”

Liam’s response was instant.

**what do u mean not a fun trip?**

**u havent got a job there have u????**

**and what friend? u dont have friends there**

Louis’ lips thinned.

The promise of grading papers didn’t seem grammatically any more promising than his best friend’s texts. It was unusual for him to give written assignments, and therefore he had put his minor—English Lit.—for good use. Mrs. Chamberlain was definitely thankful for his help.

But the real question was: loud, shared office or classroom he had to lock before six.

He easily chose the latter, and pulled the topmost essay in front of him, red marker poised and ready between his thumb and forefinger.

And there it was.

The lack of imagination, curiosity or understanding of classics—whatever it was that drove even this year’s freshmen to choose _Romeo and Juliet_ for their topic. Louis sighed and brought the pen down, cursing every grandmotherly American Literature teacher for only including dead white men in their syllabus.

A while later, after his mind had helpfully supplied that Harold texted in full sentences, he couldn’t concentrate. The lack of abbreviations and the neatness of his punctuation shouldn’t have been this distracting and sexy. Just to prove himself that, he opened Harold’s latest email containing the proceedings of the first week.

He certainly had planned it further this time around: it looked like a contract.

 

**22 Dec <Tue> Leaving from Chicago to Los Angeles. Airline: American Airlines. Lunch on the plane. Arriving time TBA. Transfer to Beverly Hills pre-arranged. Dinner with parents at 8 p.m. (Please report any allergies as soon as possible.)**

**23 Dec <Wed> Breakfast at parents’ place. Work meeting at 1 p.m. Sightseeing? Transfer to Malibu house for a break from all the work. Dinner plans negotiable. Sleepover.**

**24 Dec <Thu> Breakfast at Malibu house. Lunch with parents. Going out for dinner with family? Return to Malibu for the night.**

Louis stopped scrolling down the plan, biting his lip. No, it had not changed after the umpteenth recheck. He was starting to doubt he would stay alive until “ **28 Dec <Mon> Departure**.”

 _Knock, knock._ The raps came from the classroom’s open door where Chris was found, leaning rakishly against the door jamb, a binder imprisoned between his obviously flexed arms. Louis, trying to ignore his mind making gagging sounds, closed the tab of the email hastily.

“Heard you were helping Jane. Did she give all the _Romeo and Juliet_ ones to you, too?” Chris laughed. “What a delightful woman. Don’t let her looks deceive you, there’s always an ulterior motive into everything she does.”

“Did you only come here to tell me I’m a complete pushover when it comes to old ladies, Christopher? Because, if yes, the door is right behind you.”

The Chemistry teacher’s smile disappeared faster than Louis’ students. “’Course not! I thought you might need some extra zing.”

In his hands was a steaming cup of coffee.

“Aaah,” Louis moaned, “you, sir, are a lifesaver.” He took it from him, breathing it in. Strong. No sugar. They knew all his preferences well. “Thanks.”

He took a sip, wishing the man would take the hint. He didn’t.

“Sorry I couldn’t find you a real mug in the teachers’ lounge. All clean ones Argon.”

Louis smiled stiffly at him. He could just discern a molecular formula on Chris’ mug and, frankly, that was too close already.

“So,” Chris drawled, “any plans for the two-week release from this zoo besides freezing to death?”

Under any other circumstances, Louis wouldn’t have divulged personal plans to him, but now that it meant stemming the building Go-Out-with-Me question before it developed any further, he was all too happy to announce he would be 2,000 miles away.

“I was invited to stay with, um, with a few acquaintances of mine. It’s hardly ‘winter’ down there in Los Angeles.”

“Oh,” Chris mumbled, sounding far too rejected, “for whole two weeks?”

“Yes,” Louis replied, silently gritting his teeth. The alpha was persistent; he could give him that. “You know what’s funny? They have a _private_ fucking _jet.”_

That was the last nail to the coffin. Chris looked at him like he was seeing his colleague in a new light. His gaze shifted between Louis’ head and toes, and while he had seen him many times, perhaps he had not expected the blue Nikes and a hoodie to attract rich friends.

 _“Jet?”_ he made sure, and whistled. “Damn! I’m not a praying man, but I might just start. How do you get into those circles?”

“Rather by accident, really,” Louis told him, knowing the man would never know just how true to life his words were. “I’m afraid I can’t hook you up with Jennifer Anniston.”

“Oh,” the man said, looking confused as he started to turn toward the door. “Well, Merry Christmas, then. And happy birthday, dude.”

“Don’t mention it,” Louis groaned. “Twenty-five— _fuck_.”

Five minutes later, only one paper had received a red grade on the top left corner, but all of the coffee had disappeared. Only then, when Louis was about to throw the cup to the bin from a distance, he saw the scribbles on the side of it.

**I THINK YOU’RE**

**Cu Te**

The cup made a satisfying thump when it bounced off the wall into the bin.

 

***

 

For the first hour of the flight, Louis had leaned forward in the seat and regarded the view in dread as the land spread out under them as the plane flew over the vast, flat scenery of Midwest. Somewhere over Nebraska, though, he retreated into the bathroom, where there were just enough room not to hit the walls with his elbows when he raked his hands through his hair.

“Okay. You can do this, no different than your regular rehearsal.” He clutched the polished steel of the sink and stared at himself in the mirror above it. “Anne Twist, Harold’s mother, a grade A sweetheart, but has a spine of steel in business life, running her own company for 20 years. Then there’s her bondmate Robin Twist, the stepfather, CFO, ex-owner of a company that merged with Anne’s,” he repeated from what Harold had been able to relate to him. “Huh, wish I had been there for _that_.”

His smirk slipped away as plane hit some turbulence; Louis’ grip on the sink edge tightened, skin pulled tight over knuckles.

“Stepfather’s a shy workaholic but gave the birds and the bees talk with a straight face ten-ish years ago…well, no wonder Harold is the way he is. Gemma Twist, the sister, is a teacher, four years senior, most likely to relay the protective death threats…better watch out for her, then.”

He sighed. The mirror fogged up where his breath hit it.

When he walks back to his seat, freshly pep talked, Harold’s parents have drawn a foldable tray table between them from the cup holder on the wall, and are talking lively.

“—oh, and he was so drunk during the lunch meeting,” Anne was reminiscing. “It didn’t help that his wife complimented me on my perfume and I had to say it was given to me for free by my own child whose branded fragrance it was!”

Robin, on the other hand, had his computer open and a constant class of brandy in hand. Every time Robin leaned to refill it, the crisp leather upholstery of the seat creaked.

“She looked like she had sucked a lemon, and I don’t know if it was because of me, or his husband who had just sprayed his wine everywhere.”

“I remember. The dry cleaning bill was _vile_.”

“It’s been such a long time since we have been away from the office, isn’t it, darling?”

“Since Harry’s twentieth birthday, I think.”

“Ah, yes. Miami,” Anne replied, looking like it was a pleasant memory. “Has it really been that long? How people have time for them every year is beyond me.”

Louis had taken his seat and, although trying not to make noise, alerted Anne of his return.

“Sorry again, love, for hijacking you on such short notice, since we didn’t know how long the business would hold us in Chicago.” Anne had her elbow propped on the armrest, chin planted of her hand, and was leaning across the aisle towards Louis. Her smile was very motherly for such a stylish woman, Louis noted. “Although you must admit this is much roomier than a flying coach on a commercial airline.”

Louis looked pointedly to his knees and back. He was hardly considered over average height. In fact, the plush seat was so deep that if he sat fully in it, the edge would cut off the circulation from the back of his knees.

“Will this be your first time in LA?” Anne inquired further.

The omega found himself flushing under the attention—she had already asked about his family (“Six siblings! Dear me!”), his work (“I would have thought you were a primary school teacher, you have that look about you.”) and, out of the blue, what kind of music he listened to (to which he had to admit he had been rather out of the loop these past two years although he did love Bieber’s _Love Yourself_ , but only because it had Ed Sheeran written all over it). Which meant he hadn’t had to lie until now:

“Yes, Harold’s tried to invite me there a couple times, but we found out our dates never matched. I was busy, he was busy or on the other side of the globe. Funny, I’ve never actually stepped a foot out of Chicago—well, besides the stopover at LaGuardia.”

“Oh, darling,” Anne said, as if it was a crime against human rights to stay in one, cold place for too long. “Trust me, this will be a lot warmer.”

“That’s for sure,” Louis chuckled, wishing Robin would close his laptop because the sun reflecting off it was blinding him, but not knowing how to say it.

Anne had been watching the young omega sneakily, and got concerned when his stiff position never seemed to relax; whether mindful of the new upholstery or just plain uncomfortable, she didn’t know.

“Do you have a flight fright?”

“Airplanes, no.” Louis tilted his head in contemplation, mouth twisting. “Flying, luxurious cans? Possibly.”

Anne unexpectedly laughed, almost barked, out loud; the sound was so Harold-like it tugged at Louis’ heartstrings painfully.

The laptop on the foldable table let out a melodic _ding_. Robin tapped the keyboard a few times, opening what looked like Outlook reflecting off his glasses. Another click opened a view of few lines of text.

“It’s Gemma. Still in NY. Her plane is delayed.”

“Is the transport network creaking again?” Anne asked, tapping her manicured nails against the armrest. Louis observed her hands with much curiosity; beside his mother, Anne was one of the few omegas, whose age he had a hard time guessing. “Hopefully there are less crashes today. It’s like New York has never had a blizzard before.”

“At least it covers the lack of headline: ‘Winter took Manhattan by surprise’.”

Anne glanced at Louis again, and she must have noticed how the smile didn’t stay on his lips for long. “Are you sad leaving Chicago behind?”

“No, not Chicago. It’s just...LA is another couple thousand miles further from my mum.”

“Next holiday, I’ll make him buy you both tickets to London. It’s a bit backwards to do it this way. The _son_ should bring the mate-to-be to meet the parents and not fly behindhand.”

 _You don’t say…_ Louis was going to have a few chosen words with a certain curly haired cunt as soon as they were alone. If Harold were less kind a man, one should be worried about how quickly they indulged him.

The next few minutes the clouds thickened and he couldn’t see the land any longer. A hand, warm and calming, descended on his forearm, releasing the unconscious tension in it. Louis uncurled his fist and smiled a shaky smile. He hoped it did not come across as guilty as he felt.

“Hey,” Anne said, “it’s all going to be okay.”

It took another two hours before the plane landed. Louis put on sunglasses and ducked out of the plane after Anne, descending the stairs. The horizon was trembling with heat mirage, and the sun they had been chasing westwards—the orb hardly seeming to move at all—sat high in the cloudless shy.

There would be no white Christmas in California; no matter how much Bing Crosby dreamed of it.

Robin was walking towards two black cars. He had their luggage with him, helping a man get them into the trunk. Louis supposed he would go into the first car, to which one of the stewards was bringing Anne’s carry-ons.

“Don’t we have to go through the airport?” he asked, before he remembered that baggage claim wasn’t a necessary ordeal since they had everything with them.

Anne turned to face him from where she stood on the lowest step.

“I arranged it so we can drive straight out. I thought it would be more efficient. A customs officer is waiting us at the gate.” She winked at him. “Just because I can, being a rich mom and all. I need to impress my future son-through-bond, don’t I?”

“Right,” Louis said weakly. He couldn’t help but notice the joking atmosphere didn’t last long after it, Anne glancing towards the terminal buildings and their gleaming glass façades with her lips pursed tightly together.

The wind blowing off the far end of the landing strip was warm, ruffling his hair. The heat of the asphalt, when his sneakers touched it, came right through their bottom. It was very different. He had thought the proximity to water would cause some similarities, but no. The air was hot, and had none of the customary humidity.

He liked it.

The car ride was stifling. The dark t-shirt was smothering him, and the infrequent shadows of the skinny palm trees futile when speeding by them. Occasionally, he casted respecting looks at the joggers passing the walking Californians along the sidewalk, drenched in sweat.

Thankfully, the car was less fancy than the jet.

 

***

 

“Louis?”

The omega sitting on the barstool—looking around him at the _whiteness_ that was the large, open plan kitchen of the Twist household—twirled around in his seat to face Anne. She had changed into what could be described as nothing else but comfortable leisurewear, and looked less like an advert for women’s business jackets midst the white base and wall cabinets, island and shelves.

“Yeah?” he asked, fiddling his socked feet into a comfortable position on the slippery lower bar of the stool.

“I planned on making something special for tonight. For the five of us,” she told him, rearranging the box of tomatoes on top of the container with the cucumber slices. “Would you be okay with spinach-artichoke dish?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Wonderful,” she exclaimed with such sincere emotion, and Louis realized he genuinely liked her company.

Which was why, about three quarters of an hour later, he was still seated on the barstool to keep her company, his head thrown back in laughter. Anne had just finished telling him about how she had tried to get Robin eat healthier, for the sake of his heart, and her recollections about the ways she had had to sneak the green food into dinners were epic. It was almost entertaining enough to forget how he had teased Harold about his ‘diet’ without knowing the motives.

Serves him right…

And, while his face faced the ceiling—as white as the rest of the room—he had a good excuse to scrutinize the blinking red light atop the ventilation that had started to irk him. He hoped it was a smoke alarm, and not any sort of camera.

Anne was just pinching the dough to mold it along the edges of the baking pan—wait, was that deep-dish pizza?—when she let out a surprised, “Oh!” and looked a bit distressed as she looked from her flour covered hands to the doors behind her. “Louis darling, could you grab the Fontina cheese from the fridge? I think Martha stocked it on the lowest shelf.”

“Stocked?” Louis asked, lowering himself from the stool. “Do you have a personal fridge filler, and how do I sing up for one?”

Anne chuckled, “Don’t. Martha’s been the first to receive my complaints when I have gained a pound or five. And, she’s far too nice to point out it was I who put the chocolate pudding into the shopping list.”

Louis, searching for the gleaming surface, asked, “How does that work, then?” but, aside from the sink and a showcase for vases, found nothing but white wood. “Uh, where’s the fridge?” he asked, feeling very small and very, very stupid.

“Ah, how thoughtless of me!” She popped her hip and twisted around and, while washing her hands, she pointed to the middle of the widest doors with a certainty that only an inhabitant of the house could manage. Louis opened the door, and found behind it shelves upon shelves of food.

“A camouflaged refrigerator?”

Anne barked a laugh. “ _Integrated_ , if you don’t mind, dear. But to answer your question, Martha comes to pick up the expiring foods when we are away, and replaces them with fresh ones just before we arrive.”

“Neat.”

He picked the cheese and gave it to Anne who started grating it.

“Do you want red or white wine?” she asked, turning to wash her hands. “Or perhaps we could open a new bottle of champagne.”

Louis, horrified of drinking something that must have cost half his rent, rushed to decline the offer as politely as he could. Too much money shouldn’t be spent on him, fake and temporary as he was. “No. No, I’m afraid I have to refuse those. Or any alcohol for that matter. Thank you, though, for the offer.”

Anne had suddenly paused, mittens in hand, and her gaze flickered to his stomach. “Oh, you—you aren’t…” She gestured an arch in front of her stomach with the Christmas red mittens.

Louis’ eyes widened.

“ _No_. I’m not pregnant. Harold and I haven’t—we’ve always been safe,” he finished feebly. He felt his face heat up.

“Oh, that’s good.” Anne sounded as awkward as he felt. “Hopefully Gemma’s plane will arrive on time for the dinner.”

_Nice move._

“Do you want to have a tour of the rest of the house while the food cooks?” she continued.

Louis indeed did want to.

Fifteen minutes later, he was following her upstairs, and downstairs, admiring as he went. The windows facing the garden—lots of green, Mediterranean style plants and trees—the staircase upstairs, the wide patio doors half way there, through which he saw the sofas, and the pool that stretched so far that its edges disappeared and morphed seamlessly to the green garden beyond. He liked the hush, the glamour, the sunlit scene. All in all, it was just as peaceful as you would expect from a private gated community in Beverly Hills Post Office area.

Eventually they were interrupted by a loud buzz blaring loudly through an intercom.

Louis put his hand to his chest where his heart was beating erratically. Harold? They rounded the corner and ran into Robin who had buzzed Harold in. Together, the three of them went to receive their guest, and soon the front door opened with a lot of clacking from the luggage on his hands. Harold must be bringing all the presents with him.

“Look who I ran into at LAX!” said a woman’s voice.

That one Louis had definitely not expected. The second voice, heard laughing at or with the woman, was easily recognizable. It belonged to an alpha whose voice was the one Louis could hear most clearly in a crowd, and whose face he could distinguish first. Like now, as the pair stepped through the open door into the welcomes and wishes of a good flight.

At the same time, Harold was apologizing, “Sorry for the buzzer. I was trying to remember the code, but this impatient baby here,” he pointed at the woman—Gemma?—grinning, “managed to press the bell.”

“Hey—!”

There was a lot of shuffling around the suitcases and shoes littering the front hall. Louis soon caught Harold’s eyes and smiled at him, noticing how his face lit up. He looked different somehow. Tired. It must have been a longer flight.

Unexpectedly, Harold took a few quick strides to Louis, and threw his arms around the omega, who had not been expecting such fast and tight hug, unbalanced. It was a bit too much, a bit too soon: his adorably flattened curls, his droopy eyelids, and the scent of him; rich and sweet.

“Play along,” Harold hissed to his neck, a warn exhale. It wasn’t until he shifted his arms on Louis’ back that Louis realized to wrap his arms around him, too, from where they had frozen, half extended.

“You went straight in, did ya?” he teased, and placed his arms around Harold’s waist, under his light jacket.

Behind them, Gemma was hanging her jacket in the closet. She was tall, platinum blond—obviously dyed—and looked as much of a clone to Anne as his brother. Louis couldn’t have helped but expect to be brushed off his feet by charm close to that of her brother, but reality fell awfully short of that. She was radiant on her own way, sure, but it was clear who had been given a scoopful of this magnetic ability to bewitch people. Had they randomly met on a street, he might have missed the resemblance.

Robin started asking how the flight had been (“There was a thunderstorm below us when we flew over Atlantic. I wished I could have taken a picture of the flashing clouds!”) and how Gemma had coped with the delay (the wait had been complained about in great detail) and how much snow there had really been in NY (“We had to wait twenty extra minutes until the snow ploughs cleared the runway.”)

Harold excused himself for a shower in the upstairs bathroom, trailing several suitcases after him. Louis heard them roll along the corridor long after he had disappeared. Anne and Robin went to finish the dinner, “Did you see how Harry lit up when he saw him.” “Yes.” “I wish this would be _it,_ you know.” And thus, Louis was left alone with Gemma.

A little too late, Louis recalled Harold’s note to be cautious with being left alone with her. Shortly after the first pot clanged in the kitchen, she asked him to help with her luggage, and while Louis was cornered between her and the bag, she started.

“So,” she said casually with a sweet smile, “you’re my brother’s latest fancy.”

“Yes.”

“You have no interest gain from this relationship financially?”

“No.”

Gemma sensed his climbing frustration. Louis schooled his expression to be more hurt, less annoyed at Harold for not carrying out his mad plan better.

“You sure you aren’t looking for an accidental pregnancy, a shotgun mating, and a life in bliss?”

“Positive,” he said, and felt the need to add, “I met him _before_ I found out about his wealthy background.” Twenty minutes to be exact. “And, to be clear, I wouldn’t have found out at all if he hadn’t bragged—without sparing details about the nine bedrooms—about his house here. So if you want to protect him, maybe you should work on that.”

“And were you?”

“What?”

“Impressed.”

“No. Look, he could be the guy who brings the coffee to people, and I wouldn’t think any less of him. To me, he would be the best coffee guy in the world.”

“Well, it’s a pass so far,” she said, a nod to their shared profession. “Come help me get this stuff upstairs.”

In every room they passed there was a story to tell: Harold had remembered the names of the gardener’s kids; Harold had stayed with Gemma through her chickenpox because she had got it from him and he felt responsible; Harold had given the pool boy’s niece a ticket when she had none. Eventually, they stopped in front of Robin’s office—lines of folders and screens showing live footage of the yard—and Gemma looked at him with eyes that seemed to go through him.

Louis fiddled around, uncomfortable.

“It was nice of you to come.” She sighed heavily. “Mum’s getting her old energy back now that she’s got a new mouth to feed. I live too far, and my idiot brother is too busy to be around. She’s been a bit down.”

Ludicrously, Louis felt an itch to defend Harold. In its stead, he said, “Empty nest?”

“Menopause. She doesn’t look fifty, does she? She goes on a lot of walks along the coast to keep in shape. There’s this hike up the hills that Harry used to enjoy as well. Has he told you about that?”

He did not, but improvising had always been what Louis enjoyed the most in performing.

“The trail he always talks about? His record was twenty-two minutes, wasn’t it?”

“Thirty-tree.”

“Ah,” Louis said, grinning, “is it now? The time seems to improve every time he tells it.”

Gemma let out a sound of amusement. “He used to take the neighbors’ dogs out. What a kiss-ass. Have you heard he overshadowed my donation to a Down girl in need of an expensive operation by tripling my amount last year? Then his fans took over and they raised 150% of the original goal. Makes _me_ look like a prodigal son.”

She didn’t sound upset at all.

Downstairs, Robin and Anne could be heard chattering, a door opening somewhere along the corridor outside that probably was Harold exiting the shower. The food would be ready soon. Louis wondered if doubts about his intentions with Harold had ever crossed _their_ minds. Would they go to sleep later and share their thoughts about how imbalanced their relationship was? How he cannot amount to anything without their son’s financing? An omega who clung to Harold to make himself matter?

Gemma’s voice interrupted his tailspin.

“By the way, if mum gets too unbearable about grandchildren, I won’t be too offended if you seek refuge in Harry’s house for tonight.”

With that, she collected her luggage single-handedly, suddenly having no problem with the weight, and left to unpack. Downstairs, Anne could be heard telling Harold to get dressed, and to stop stealing food from the fridge. His answering belly-laugh lifted Louis spirits a touch higher.

 

***

 

The formal dining room of the Twist house was not used often.

“We’re so busy with work we just pop into the kitchen and heat the pre-made foods the cook made. But he’s on Christmas break now,” said Anne about the matter.

The table was an eight-seater, the chandelier above it was unlit, and Louis angled his knife flat, so as not to scratch the china’s silver-flowered rims. The food lived up to its serving, Louis thought as he speared a cherry tomato. He consciously tried to slow his eating; homecooked meals had been few and far between recently. The way Anne smiled affectionately at him over the table told Louis he was largely unsuccessful.

Harold was sitting next to him. Sometimes when he reached for his wine glass, the scent of fresh laundry and soap wafted to Louis’ nose, and he would look up and watch Harold, whose hair was still moist and curling even wilder than usual.

“And don’t be fooled by my son. He will raid the fridge in the blink of an eye,” Anne continued, fork clinking against the plate. “Just like when he was a teenager, and shot up like weed in one year.”

Louis, amused at the mental picture of a chubbier Harold trying to squeeze himself into the already straining jeans, smirked at the table.

“I’m still growing,” Harold argued, flexing his arm. “Just not vertically.”

Robin had zoned out, probably thinking about work. For a while Louis had been worried he would have to dress up as if for a cocktail hour, but after catching a glimpse of Robin in jeans that looked worn enough to fall off, he was no longer anxious.

Louis remarked, “Any more growing and it’s not protein that causes it,” eyeing the way the shirt stretched over Harold’s biceps.

“You two make such a cute couple,” said Anne. “Harry here has been awfully secretive about his Louis. He should have known better, though—Mummy Interrogation won’t be averted, only slightly postponed.”

She winked, Harry groaning like any teen embarrassed by their parent in front of their crush would have, and tried to hide his flushed cheeks behind a long drink of wine.

“I understand you had been in contact for a while before you started dating?”

Louis waited a beat. He could see Harold smirking; most probably preparing for a pun-y reply. Louis said, “Well, we did flirt and pine for each other until one of us got the courage to confess. I think it eventually was his sense of humor. It really kind of _clicked_ with mine.”

 _“Great_ sense of humor,” Harold felt necessary to add.

“Yeah.” Unconvincing.

Harold pinched the soft skin on Louis’ hip. Louis wondered if Anne, sitting opposite of him, knew her son’s hand wasn’t really entwined with Louis’ like they wanted her to believe, but half extended just for the show. Gemma was looking at him again, and there was a sinking feeling in Louis’ stomach. He had forgotten that while Harry’s sister had inherited the same humor, the same light-hearted way of viewing life, she was also very protective of her family. He hadn’t seen it as something negative before, until now, as she regarded him as a threat to the happiness of his brother.

“How long have you been with my brother, again?” she asked.

Louis’ defenses rose. Deflect the question, a voice inside his head said, and he replied, “Truly…when was it? Time flies when in pleasant company, doesn’t it? Definitely long enough to have heard all the dirty laundry on you. I heard you are a teacher, too?”

“At a small primary school in Essex, thank God. I am an introvert, unlike my baby brother here. And more intellectual, although the problem would be him leaving the students, and staff alike, all schmoozed up. It’s weird to watch how people just stare at him.”

Harold argued, “I don’t schmooze.”

“You do. That’s the problem; you don’t even notice doing it.” And then her judging brow was directed on Louis again.

They were back where they started. Thank you, Harold. In spite of his chagrin, he let his elbow brush his, leaning to, loudly, whisper, “Don’t worry, H. It is statistically proven that every sibling has, at one point in their life, been jealous of the other.”

Harold stopped turning his food around on his plate to give Louis a wide-eyed blink.

“Funny," said Gemma. "I think I recall teenage me saying only attention-hungry prats would want fame.”

Louis had had enough. Scathingly, he said, “Yes. Funny, indeed. It does sound like you were needy for attention and overcompensated with your intellect.”

There was a moment, a few nerve-wracking seconds of physically biting his tongue, before the dumbstruck expression on Gemma’s face unexpectedly turned into one of laugher.

She laughed, “I like him. Keep him.”

The tension around the table drained like water down the sink.

“Do you have plans for the future?” asked Anne, cutting into her piece of the pizza, and peering at them from under her brow.

Louis felt Harold twitch, and was reminded of Gemma approving an escape in case of a situation like this.

“How far future are we talking about?” he asked, bidding time. “I personally can’t wait until settling down and having a family is a thing for me. With Harold here, if I’m lucky. Just not in the coming two or three years. So far.”

“Yeah.” Harold cleared his throat. “Yeah. Same.”

Louis tried not to look at him. It took a great deal of effort.

“Could you two move closer or look all couple-y for me?” asked Gemma. “Maybe a kiss for the camera?”

The mouthful of food was suddenly scalding hot on Louis’ tongue, and he gasped for breath as his eyes started to water. “S-sorry?”

“That literally came out of nowhere,” said Harold, who was idly worrying a rip in the knee of his jeans—a thread had come loose and he was spinning it around his index finger—and Louis knew he hated that they didn’t suspect a thing, but at the same time Harold wouldn’t want it otherwise.

“I want to take a picture of you two all cuddled up.” True to her words, she took out her phone, the screen light harsh in the ambient light of two candlesticks. “For future reference. We can all laugh at your silly heart-eyed gazes in five years.”

Now the exchange had also caught Robin’s notice. Louis looked from the expectant parents to Gemma who looked at him sweetly. Was this another test or not, Louis wondered.

“No.” They all startled, Harold frowning at the table cloth. His voice was so young and shy suddenly, when he continued, “I don’t want to, not when you’re looking,” that all of their gazed softened. Gemma’s the most, who seemed to find it reminiscent of something.

Louis covered Harold’s fiddling hand with his, and made sure the motion of him rubbing Harold’s thigh comfortingly was not lost on anyone. Harold’s hand became still under his, and Louis could feel his stare even though he kept his eyes fixed on Gemma. Had she implied something with the picture? Other than wanting to make himself relevant by being associated with Harold—rich, cute and charming Harold—who no doubt had some power in media, although Louis had no idea how.

“You know,” started Anne, tentatively, as though testing weak ice. “I still haven’t gotten that full back story. I find it hard to believe you would have just stumbled across each other in a store and hit it off.”

“Told you,” Harold lowly mumbled at Louis, “we should have gone with the bathroom one.”

Louis found himself helplessly snorting so loud the sudden release of air caused ripples in his raised glass of water.

“Well, believe it or not” Harold said, “all it needed was that; to hopelessly start looking at a picture of him and think of a thousand ways I could kiss him when we finally meet again.”

Anne melted, Louis trying to hide his laugh behind a napkin, and glancing over it to Gemma who had choked on her wine. Harold’s eyes twinkled. He looked just enamored enough to pull off something that ludicrous. He seemed to be far better actor than Louis had given him credit for.

 

***

 

Harold had left to unpack his things, declaring his shirts might wrinkle if kept in the suitcase for too long, and Louis’ mind was still reeling from their conversation before that.

“Maybe we should discuss some quirks about one another we should gush about to them,” Harold had said with a head tilt towards Anne and Robin clearing the dinner table when walking along the length of the hallway to the family room. “It’s a very couple-y habit.”

“Oh, I see,” Louis said. “Well, I could have smelly feet. Oh! And I’m definitely a snorer. That always wins the sympathy of others who can relate.”

“Do be serious, Louis.”

Louis sniggered and arranged his face to a more suitable expression. “Alright, let’s see…I always close the toilet seat when flushing so you have to lift it up over and over again. Some days I only eat cereal at breakfast. Also, you think the mole on my left cheek is shaped like a pear.”

“And,” Harold asked, searching his face, “where is this mole?”

“Wrong cheek.”

Harold ducked his head, flushing a pretty shade of pink that complimented his naturally pink lips rather well. Not that Louis was paying any extra attention to Harold’s mouth. None. It just happened to be right in front if his eyes. Very pink. Very kissable.

“Should—should I tell you some of mine?”

“I’m pretty good at making stuff up as I go but in this case, it’s better to have a seed of truth in what I say.” Louis shrugged. “Let’s hear them.”

“And I would appreciate to know beforehand if you are going to accuse me of not being an endurance man—”

Louis opened his mouth.

“—which is not true, before you ask—or something similar.” Harold fiddled with his rings, as though nervous about his ideas being shot down. “Okay. So…Right. We like to FaceTime to each other. During weekends, late at night. Even quickly during your lunch hour. I think you don’t know I never hang up if you have fallen asleep on me, but I’m oblivious to the fact you find me listening to you shuffling in your sleep extremely endearing.”

And that, thought Louis, was even better than anything he could have come up with. Standing there, at the middle of the living room, Harold now long gone, he found himself doubting if he ever had played being in love convincingly. Or if he had just been beaten by the unrivaled natural talent of a rom-com lover extraordinaire.

Next to Louis, was a shelf that had a lot of picture frames, a family photo, Harold, Gemma and Anne smiling at the camera, dimples matching one another.

“If you’re looking for baby pictures, they’re hung in the master bedroom.”

Louis, nearly jumping so high his socks left the ground, said, “Jesus, you gave me a fright.”

Gemma. She looked at the photos, too. “I keep seeing so many mums these days, posting pictures of their kids on social media where the parent is clearly the focus of the shot. While I remember my childhood being lonely, having a busy mum, being nannied, at least I have the proof here she really valued us above herself. And I have to admit, as embarrassing as my little brother is, she did a great job to raise the politest alpha in the entertainment industry.”

“It’s you, too, you know. If he wasn’t with other older kids a lot, who do you think he looked up to? Still looks up to? Without your influence, I don’t think he would be the person he is today.”

For a while, Gemma didn’t look away from the photos, keeping Louis in suspense, but when she did, her eyes had a wet sheen to them.

“And now you’ve made my mascara run. I’ll go sort myself out.”

She left Louis looking at a grainy, old school picture of Anne until he heard someone step into the room. The real-life version of the photo came to stand by him, smelling of dish soap, facing the photos. Louis gave a start at how stressed the subtle wrinkles on her face looked in comparison with the girl on the frame; she’d appeared to have aged so well…

 “They say Gemma reminds them of me more, but I think they are just deceived by her being an omega,” Anne told him. “I rather think Harry has always been the most ‘me’ in temperament as well as looks.”

The corners of Louis’ mouth were involuntarily lifting into a fond grin. “Are you volunteering or do you have an own charity organization?” he said as a nod to a picture with Anne and kids in princess costumes.

Besides the business-like exterior, outside work, she was the kind of mother type one would want to bury their head against, and inhale the scent of freshly baked rolls.

 “Oh, yes!” Her eyes brightened as she perked up. “I have founded Holmes Cancer Fund.” She gestured toward a photo on the left, terribly thin and as white as salt, but still, the girl looked happy. “Lot of children in need. Brain cancer among others.” Her finger slid lower as her hand returned to her side like she couldn’t hold it up any longer. “Poor things.”

“Can I ask,” Louis started tentatively, “why Holmes?”

“For Holmes Chapel, that’s where I’m from originally.”

“That’s not unfairly far from Doncaster, actually.”

Anne wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and they continue to look at the pictures. Louis, who had gotten a bit emotional looking at them, swallowed tightly.

“It’s so nice of you.” He looked at the kids, their faces. “You must have made their day. Look at that smile.”

“Mhmm, it was a good day.” Her hand rubbed lovingly up and down Louis’ arm, and momentarily tightened before letting him go. “Harry gives money to it. Far more than he should—I approve of course as it’s a good cause—but you never know what road your life suddenly takes. He’s so good and innocent. My baby. “

Louis hummed. “I really do like how you have raised him. I have never met someone so genuinely nice, well-mannered and attentive than him.”

Anne let out an, “Awww,” and this time caught him into a full-on bear hug. Louis wasn’t sure, but he might have heard her sniffle. Her hair smelled nice, and felt soft against his cheek. Just over her shoulder, he spied Harold stepping into the room, looking at them curiously. Perhaps he was wondering if Louis needed saving or not. Depending how much he had heard…

“Trying to scare my boyfriend away, mum?” he asked, after a moment during which Anne let Louis go with a clumsy, wet pat on his cheek.

“If she is, she’s doing it wrong.”

Harold slipped his hand into Louis’, who tensed at the new feeling. Very conscious of the position of each of his fingers.

“Oh, don’t be shy because of me,” Anne said, smiling at them. “It’s nice to see young love. Feel free to cuddle up.”

Harold squeezed his fingers. A zip of pure energy went up Louis’ arm and down his spine.

“Where’s Robin?” asked Harold. “I’ve hardly seen him after dinner.”

“Oh, I kicked him out of the office. Can you imagine? Doing video conference calls so near Christmas, and with a guest in the house.” Anne pursed her lips. “I think he went to fix that hinge in the garage door. Once a workaholic, always a workaholic.”

Harold shifted his hold on Louis’ hand, uneasy. Louis could feel both their palms starting to sweat.

“Oh, and Harry. I brought some fresh sheets to your room. I had it dusted just last week.” She smiled, addressing Louis: “It must have been a long day for you.”

As if just realizing his own sleepiness, Louis felt his mouth stretch into a sizable yawn that he tried to cover with his hand a bit too late. “Oh, well. A bit sleepy, yes. Where do I sleep?”

“Sorry?”

“Uh.” Louis said, realizing she might have meant you, not as in Harold, but as a royal you. “Do we share a room or?”

“Is that a problem? I think we can turn the AC on a guest room and vacuum it…”

“No, it’s all right,” Harold said hastily, “my room is just fine.”

“All right,” repeated Anne, looking between them in confusion. Hopefully wondering how often they had had to sleep separated, rather than doubt the nature of their relationship itself. Then, she smiled. “No funny business, though. The walls might be thick but I’m still your mum and currently under the same roof. The old rules still apply.”

Harold groaned. Louis found himself praying the room had a couch, or an extra mattress. Even a king-sized bed would have passed. Why, oh why, had they not thought this through. Harold changed his hold to loop his pinky around Louis’ forefinger, and pulled him out of the living room.

“I heard what you said to my mum,” Harold told him after they were out of hearing distance. Their fingers stayed locked; nobody knew who would be watching. “If you keep that up, she’ll expect me to declare our bonding in a matter of weeks. It was a good call.”

“I wasn’t playing. I really meant it.”

Harold faltered, glancing at Louis’ honest face quickly in surprise. “Oh.”

Louis followed him upstairs, down the corridor, being pulled only by that one grounding finger, and stopped before the first door on the left. Harold pushed it open, and stepped in, leaving Louis to look at the room past him. It was dark, but the air was fresh and warm, and Louis thought they must have been paying for a cleaning lady. Through the open door, the hallway light filtered into the room, allowing him to see the outlines of a wardrobe, a queen sized bed, and a carpet, few shades of lighter than the grey mass of the room.

Then Harold flicked the lights on.

It was all surprisingly very generic, and black and white from the bedcover to the grey night tables and polka dot chair. Band posters covered the wall across the bed.

“Fleetwood Mac, Rolling Stones, the Beatles,” Louis read, a teasing smile growing on his face the further the wall he got. “Green day, Queen, Elvis, Script—my God, I can’t even tell what color the wall is!”

Harold had thrown himself on his bed, and was watching Louis nosing his way into the room through the triangle shaped gap between his legs. He waved his left foot that rested atop his right knee.

“When you’re done judging,” he said, “you can always join me on this fine bed.”

That got Louis’ attention, and he nearly tripped on his suitcase he couldn’t remember carrying further than the entry hall.

“Oh, right. I brought your things here earlier.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. He got a dim recollection of Harold carrying more than one suitcase upstairs. _“How_ much earlier?”

Harold grinned at him though his legs, hands clasped behind his head. “It was purely precautionary.”

“So,” Louis picked a decorative pillow from the chair next to him, “this has been your plan all along? How presuming of you to get me into compromising situation I can’t politely back off from.” ”

Louis rested one knee on the bedspread, stalling, until Harold’s suggestive lift of the brows presented the needed push. His limbs loosened; he felt drunk on his own daring.

“What are you going to do then?” Louis prompted. “Steal my virtue?”

“I think it’s been too late to steal that ever since you started to be able to joke about it.”

The pillow clutched in his hands swung through the air and hit its target. It bounced softly off Harold’s head, his hair swiftly mussed, and Louis raised his weapon for a second strike before Harold’s hand caught both his wrists and kept them imprisoned.

Louis insisted, “Take it back.”

“No.” Harold pried the pillow from Louis’ grip in few tugs. “It’s my turn to negotiate because I have the upper hand here.”

With his free hand, Harold started to inch his way up Louis’ side before reaching his sensitive spot, right under his ribs. Louis squealed a high-pitched sound, shouting a breathy, “Stop, stop!” that morphed into a giggle and tried to twist away from him. His kicked, hitting only thin air. His elbow, on the other hand, connected with Harold’s ribs. Their bodies crashed against each other, the air between them light, and easy.

They fell—or more like slid—off the bed with the bedspread that had become rumpled under them, and landed with a soft thumb. Harold sat there with his knees drawn to his chest, breathing hard, and sometimes chancing a glance at Louis, sitting beside him with his legs stretched out straight forward.

In front of them was a floor-to-ceiling window, and Louis briefly contemplated asking Harold to twist the blinds half open in case he had troubles sleeping. It would be lovely to look at the stars, or the watch the morning sun climb into the sky over the roofs of downtown LA.

 Harold prodded his knee with his socked foot. “Do you want to watch the view?”

Louis’ heart skipped a beat. A thrill went through him at having his mind read.

“Ye—yeah,” he said, voice breathy. “I would love that.”

Harold smiled and took out a remote control from the first drawer of the night table. He clicked it a couple of times and soon reddish light pooled onto the floor, painting Harold’s dark hair russet.

“Is east that way?” Louis asked.

Harry looked from him to the sky that was royal purple, lightening into pale orange in the far right.

“South, I think. The sun won’t bother us in the morning. Unless, of course, we sleep until noon.”

There went Louis’ plan. Perhaps it would be better to count sheep. He lifted himself from the floor, dusting his jeans, although he did consider the dirt to be improbable. The carpet must have been vacuumed one a week, and expensive. Louis hoped it was worth the money. What did it even do? Float?  Clean itself?

Behind him, Harold was starting to undress. The removal of his jeans and shirt revealed black boxer briefs, way too low to be appropriate. His love handles looked soft, a natural addition to the curve of his waist, noticeable even without the help of a belt. Then, his hands moved to the elastic band of the underwear next and Louis all but choked on his alarmed inhale.

Harold paused when he realized Louis had frozen.

“Sorry.” He didn’t even look embarrassed. Louis was reminded of the time he had talked about showing him his tattoo, which was, right now, still very much hidden behind the scarce fabric, and was sure the alpha would really have done it. “Old habits. I usually sleep naked.” He rummaged through a bureau, and pulled out dark blue shorts with black hedgehogs patterned on it. “Should we both use pajamas? Which do you prefer?”

“Pajamas. When I’m a guest.” Louis tried not to look at Harold’s legs; long, tan and very much visible right now as he put his shorts on, left leg first. “I’ll go change in the bathroom.”

Louis picked up a random shirt of a larger size before he walked to the ajar door, hip-checking it closed after him.

The second door on the left opened to a view of frosted glass, and porcelain. Bingo. The bathroom had no bathtub or window, but the furthest wall of the room consisted purely of a wall-mounted decorative glass, lit from behind. The mirror above the vanity had a black smudge in the lower left corner; Louis didn’t know whether it was because the mirror was that old, or because it was one of those synthetically aged things that were fashionable nowadays.

He put on the shirt, and washed his face quickly—wishing to get rid of his heated cheeks—before stepping back into the hall, and returning to the room with the still body-warm clothes balled in his other hand.

The fallen bedcover lay folded gingerly at the floor. Harold was just pulling the duvet down to slip in when Louis stepped into the room. The phone in the alpha’s hands illuminated his face with its pale blue glow, as well as his chest.

“Oh,” Louis said, startled. “I get it now.”

Harold’s hands halted their movement, blinking at Louis from other side of the bed. His eyes looked very bright in the screen’s light as his eyes roamed over Louis. Upon seeing the direction of Harold’s gaze, Louis quickly pulled the shirt lower, stretching it as far as it could go.

“Get what?”

“Your spare ones,” Louis said, stuffing his used clothes back into the open suitcase. “You have four nipples.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose I mentioned that,” he said, distracted, and scratched idly on one of the swallows on his chest. “You have a good memory.”

“So, we’re really doing this?” asked Louis, looking at his still-made side with apprehension. “Not that I’m complaining—it’s a very nice, large bed—better than the couch, or floor.” Louis couldn’t remember struggling with words this badly in a long while. “Do I need to prepare to fight with your freaky long limps all night?”

“Long?” A little pleased.

“I said freaky. Freakishly long.”

“I don’t tend to move a lot. I think,” stated Harold unhelpfully, burrowing under the duvet. “Although, I can’t promise not to sleep talk.”

“As long as you won’t be singing.”

Harold seemed to find something immensely funny about that, and Louis hesitated. It was not like he had never slept—in both meanings of the word—with someone of the opposite status. But, at both times, he had been sure of what sharing the bed entailed; platonic comfort, or sexual pleasure. Now, Louis was simply grasping for thin air.

“Is something wrong?” asked Harold.

“I just haven’t had someone sleep next to me since I left London.”

There was a pause. “Celibate?” asked Harold, sprawl relaxed, and Louis wondered if he was slightly tipsy from all the wine. His gaze and voice had an even lazier quality in them than usual.

“Oh, I have had sex with people during these two years.” Louis kept his tone conversational. “I never allowed them to stay over.”

Harold looked disappointed.

“What?” Louis asked, the clear judgement on Harold’s gaze irked him. “I wasn’t aware I needed to save myself for my ‘soulmate’?”

“It’s just—there’s no glamour in sneaking out or kicking someone else out right after sex.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t call it making love. The point of a hook up is to forget them as soon as it’s over. I have. Usually there was a dick involved, so I presume there had been a guy attached to it.”

“And this is exactly why we are doing this. I don’t like that flippant tone you use when you talk about anything that could be misinterpreted as commitment.”

Their principles were crashing. Hard.

“But—”

“Get in,” ordered Harry, not unkindly.

Louis did. The bedding felt cozy and good. High thread count, he guessed, possibly thousand. Harold’s left hand was a foot or so away from him, and Louis wondered if he could sense his heart pounding through the mattress. 

“Does this bother you?” Harold lifted his iPhone—6 Plus, Louis recognized on a closer look—with the rainbow cover. “I mean, it’s midnight in Chicago. I won’t be reading for long, I promise.”

“No, it’s alright. I’ll sleep on my other side while you…surf.” He turned to face the wall. The bedside lamp on Louis’ side was on, and upon closer inspection, Louis found no switch. “Don’t tell me this is a clap light. How do you switch this off?”

Harold raised his face from the phone, and leaned over Louis, who shifted his legs closer together. Harold repositioned the hand supporting his weight near Louis’ hips—Louis knew he had seen him move but he did not point it out. A switch on the wall was clicked, and the light in the room diminished; only the phone screen was left, making light pool on the ceiling from where Harold had left it, face up, on his billow.

Louis pulled the duvet up to his chin.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

Harold, leaning back, looked at him strangely. “What did you call me?”

Louis’ eyes widened. “I’m sorry—it just caught on. Everyone else calls you Harry.”

“You’re right at that. _Everyone_ _does_.”

Louis eyed him suspiciously for a beat, but when Harold didn’t continue, he willed himself to sleep. Harold’s curly hair was a dark spill against the pillow, his breaths raised his chest evenly, and his blinking was even slower.

Gradually, Louis relaxed, the thudding of his heart, and the rising of his chest slowing down. Stress unwinding. He rolled to his side, tucked two of the soft pillows closer to him, and closed his eyes.

It was the best sleep he had had in months.

 

***

When Louis woke up, eyeing blearily at the immediate, unfamiliar surroundings, his gaze fell upon the navy-blue sheets tangled at the foot of the bed with only a lingering scent of Tom Ford. He was relieved to be saved from further awkwardness, and enjoyed the novel absence of a rough blanket. Pale light spilled through the vertical, canvas blinds onto the shaggy white rug. Louis’ eyes idly followed its fluff—and had to squeeze them shut.

So, that was what had woken him up. A sunbeam painted the insides of his lids orange, thanks to the mirror on the wall.

He sat up slowly, letting the sheets pool around his waist. Aside from the hum of the AC, it was calm and quiet inside the house, but if he listened closely, he could discern the honks of LA traffic somewhere in the distance. He swung his feet off the bed, landing on the rug. His suitcase still stood unpacked near the door.

Hoisting himself fully out of the bed, Louis padded to it and zipped it open. He picked sweats and a hoodie to keep his sleep-warm body toasty warm, and pulled them on as his gaze landed on the bureau.

He knew he ought not to, but, after fighting against the mad idea for approximately ten seconds before giving in, his curiosity won over. He walked to it, opened the doors, and saw a row of clothes; most of them of wrong color, size or material, or all three. He sunk his fingers into one of the silk shirts, rubbing its smooth material between his thumb and forefinger. He brought the sleeve to his nose, and inhaled. A noise somewhere in the house caused him to recoil from it like he had been burned. He shook his head at himself as he left the room.

“Please give me the strength to preserve whatever is still left of my sanity.”

He opened the door gingerly, the handle cool against this palm. There were no voices coming from the other side but then again, this was far better sound-proofed than his apartment building in Chicago.

In the stairs, Louis was forced to pause halfway down. He heard voices coming through the slightly ajar patio door in front of him, and with the excuse to check the view—and the infamous infinity pool—he pushed the door open wider and slipped onto the patio. Now closer, the voice sounded a lot like Anne talking with a man, but Robin definitely didn’t have such over pronounced American accent.

“Sign here, and here,” the voice said. It belonged to a beta in a crispy, white button-up and grey slacks, who leaned across the table to tap a certain page as Anne—wearing a dressing gown over silk trousers and t-shirt—riffled through a thick looking pile of papers. She lifted her gaze when she heard Louis approach.

She smiled as warmly as the sun glittering on the water of the pool, and pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. “Good morning, love,” she said. “There’s some Full English left for you downstairs. I’m afraid it has gone cold. It’s almost noon.”

“It’s not a problem,” Louis reassured her. He scratched his left forearm awkwardly, wondering if it would be alright to just go and take what he needed. Anne probably wanted him to do exactly that; to be there like it was his home—like he could have a claim on anything he wished. “You wouldn’t happen to have Yorkshire tea, would you?”

Anne’s smile wavered. “I’m sorry, no,” she said, “but that can be arranged.”

“If it’s not a problem.”                                              

“Of course not. Did you sleep well?”

“Surprisingly. It was like the mattress was custom made for me,” he told her, and when she smiled like she knew something he didn’t, he asked, “What?”

“It’s air mattress, meant to morph to the pressure of the sleeping person. “My poor boy has always had a bad back. But you must know that already,” she laughed.

Louis thought back to the time at the beach. “Yeah, I know.”

Louis nodded to the suit guy now subtly glaring at him at having interrupted something that was either a very intense financial consulting meeting or private insurance negotiation, but either way, the reason the man got paid. He answered with a jerky movement of his head before pulling more papers from his briefcase and planting them in front of Anne.

She grimaced.

“Sorry. I swear I will turn the work mode off for twenty-four hours starting tomorrow.”

“I’m sure Harold will like that,” said Louis, and walked to the balustrade surrounding the patio and looked out to the garden. There were stairs descending onto the grass, a stone path that meandered through all the elements. Behind him, recessed into the decking, was the pool, only ten feet or so higher than the garden, but enough to feel like you were swimming in the air, he supposed.

Harold had carried a sunbed out of the shade of the patio, and was tanning himself near the cypresses. Louis’ eyes were held in place by the glisten of bare legs in sunlight.

He was sleeping.

With the paper covering Harold’s eyes, Louis was forced to pay a lot closer attention to his mouth than he would have liked. His chest was shiny with perspiration Louis felt forming on his skin, too. It was a hot day. Cloudless. It hardly felt like the day before his birthday at all. Just as a gust of wind finally ruffled his loose hoodie, and caused the greenery to murmur, Harold’s body started to shift. Louis halted.

Harold said, “Morning, my love.”

“’Love’?”

Harold tilted the magazine— _Cake Craft & Decoration_—to shade his eyes and squinted up at him, eyes soft. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s a bit overkill, mate.”

“Well, you might have to get used to it. It’s either that or ‘my burrito’.”

Louis’ lips thinned, and he fought to pluck the magazine out of Harold’s arms as revenge, only managing to rip a few pages from the sound of it when Harold stretched his arms above his head. Louis followed the movement, climbing on the sunbed. He let out an unsatisfied growl when he realized his arms weren’t long enough.

Harold had been giggling, but was now laughing so hard he actually slapped his knee once, which Louis didn’t know people actually did, the magazine balled in his hand. Only Louis’ thigh was on the way, and Harold left his hand there, as if he had already forgotten it, resting against his lower thigh—

“Oi! Don’t start anything what I would have to witness!”

Their little bubble burst like it was made of soap. Harold shifted, ill at ease, and Louis was horrified to find himself squarely in his lap, his knees framing Harold’s hips. He swallowed, quickly retreating to the foot of the sunbed.

Gemma was grinning, leaning against the balustrade, and sipping from a glass. She waved at him innocently when Louis turned to look at her.

“You’ve seen me in a lot less clothes, Gems.” Harold’s voice sounded off. “We used to take bathes together, remember?”

“Yeah! When we were five!” She stuck her tongue out.

Harold chuckled and shook his head, Louis looking from him to Gemma. He had known she would be there to witness this? The whole thing must have been scripted from start to finish then, from Louis’ predictable response to his teasing, to the way they would look entirely engrossed in each other. The problem was…Louis had completely forgotten to pretend.

“Now look at what you made me do,” Harold told him, and pouted down at the wrinkled issue. “I liked these Christmas themed frostings”

“Is that a _bun?”_

The said bun bobbed as Harold twisted, propping himself up on one elbow to look at him, saying, “I’m not sure whether I should take your incredulous tone as a compliment or not.”

Louis continued to stare. Harold had pulled all his hair away from the nape of his neck, and drawn them up into a loose, round and messy bun on the back of his head.

He blurted out, “Your ears look quirky.”

Harold appeared to preen at his words, mumbling a, “Thanks,” before sitting up, and touching the top of Louis’ cheek, thumb gracing over the bone. “It’s a little red. Do you need to borrow some sunscreen? I have SPF 50.”

Perhaps he really _had_ burned his cheeks yesterday—they felt unnaturally hot all of a sudden, after all. “I guess.”

Harold’s thumb stopped stroking. “I didn’t wake you up in the middle of the night, did I? Long flights always make me thirsty, and I had to get up for some water twice.”

“No, I didn’t notice. I slept long enough to cover years’ worth of late nights, and woke up to all this infernally bright light.”

Harold grinned. “What time is it?”

Louis shrugged, and said, “Noon, apparently, according to your sundial of a room.”

“Damn,” Harold mumbled, throwing a hand over his eyes, and peering sleepily at Louis. “I’ve got to go to work. Just for an hour. Then I have another month free before I need to see their faces again.”

“Asshole boss?”

“Something like that.”

“So you’re leaving me alone? With your nosy family?”

“You’re doing fine with my mum,” said Harold, with a quick glance towards the patio. “Just talk some more about my attentiveness and manners, and they’ll both be putty in your hands.”

“I was serious!”

“So am I. Watch a movie or something. Mum at least won’t attack you then.” Harold rubbed the sleep from his eyes, thumbing the corner of his right eye. “Can’t say the same about Gemma, though”

“All right. If you say so.”

Harold’s attention turned to the pillow he puffed. Louis watched him, wondering what his motive was for doing this. Obviously, he was a hardcore romantic, but was he mad enough to settle for proving him a relationship could be amazing, that Louis did not know. A load of bull if you asked him…

“A little loose…maybe I should tighten you.”

_“Sorry?”_

“I was talking to the chair.” To demonstrate it, Harold shifted his weight and the sunbed wobbled. “I think there’s a loose screw somewhere.” Then he looked slyly up at him from under his lashes, and said, “I could, of course, work on your loose places as well.”

“Horrible. Absolutely terrible.”

“My mind is a deep ocean of secrets.”

“It’s ‘heart’, but alright, Rose DeWitt.”

Harold looked at him strangely. “You knew that quote?” He burst into a victorious laugh. “I knew it. I totally called that one! You are secretly a fan of romance.”

“Shut up,” mumbled Louis, but he had a hard time trying not to smile.

“’I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her,’” Harold quoted without delay and with incredible accuracy. Few hairs had escaped the loose bun and the wind was whipping them around Harold’s face; he spat them out of his mouth impatiently. “Should I make you tea or coffee, or do you reckon you’ll find where the tea bags and the mugs are on your own?”

“Thank you,” said Louis quickly, “I take my tea without sugar.”

Harold rolled his eyes.

 

 

 

***

Louis climbed up the stairs, trying hard not to spill any liquid out of the overflowing bowl of Coco Pops and the mug of tea he was carrying, feeling giddy like a kid who had been given the green light to eat in the living room ‘like the grown-ups’ for the first time. At the upstairs living room—one of many—he seated himself on the plush sofa cushions with a thump, lowering the bowl on his folded legs. Anne trailed behind him, having promised to show him how to use the DVD drive.

“I love how you keep calling him Harold.” She smiled fondly as she watched him wiggle to get comfortable. “He usually dislikes being called that.”

“Really? I thought he preferred it.”

Anne only smiled wider. “Maybe it’s not about the name but the one who calls him it.”

Louis started worrying his lip. Having stepped into the room, Anne had drawn the thick blackout curtains to shield the screen, and was digging through the media unit in search of movies. In minutes, a tall pile had started to form onto the coffee table.

“There’s not a lot of action, I’m afraid.” She turned _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ around in her hands and said, “Or new ones. Movie nights were always girls’ nights for us. And when Harry tagged along, he didn’t complain.”

“It’s fine, really.”

To say the TV was massive would either hurt its feelings or be a huge compliment for all televisions everywhere. It covered three quarters of the wall! Louis mind was reeling from all the possibilities: being here for a week must mean being able to taking advantage of _that_.

“Important question,” Louis asked, pointing a finger at the TV, “can I watch football from that screen?”

Anne gave a hearty guffaw, saying he may have to wrestle the remote from Robin’s grip to turn the golf off. She seemed to have trouble with the DVD, but when Louis asked, she refused to receive his help or search for her mate. While waiting, Louis scooped a spoonful of cereal and looked around the room as he chewed slowly.

“This used to be the game room,” said Anne, when she noticed him looking. “Now it’s my shrine for my no-longer-so-little children.” She winked. “Just without the candles. Too much, and it starts to look sacrificial.”

Louis hadn’t looked at it closely with Gemma, but now he noticed a showcase just in reach of his elbow, seeing his own face reflected at him, fixing that one, long strand of hair that framed his right cheekbone, and caught flash of metal. Perhaps a brass figure kicking a ball? Or perhaps a boy swinging a bat? Yet, strangely enough, it was a very real-looking golden gramophone. Surely not, he laughed at himself. Perhaps it’s a gag, living here and all, hardly needing to buy one as a souvenir…

But what did it say on it? The black base and nameplate were gleaming, text declaring the year and title in a text too small to make out, yet, on a larger font, on the second row of text, stood a name.

Harry Styles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii,  
> Sorry for the wait. Still here, still doing fine. Thank you for all the feedback and heart-felt questions here and on my tumblr. XX -M
> 
> WARNING: THIS IS WHERE THE "EXPLICIT" RATING IS NEEDED AND HEED THE WARNING IF THAT IS NOT YOUR THING AND SKIP THE END (YOU'LL KNOW WHEN IT STARTS)

The driver’s side door had hardly managed to bang shut, echoing in the silence of the garage, before Louis descended on his unsuspecting target. The cause of his rage was standing frozen next to his car, hand frozen mid-shove. Harry looked stunned to see him.

_Harry Styles._

Louis was fuming. After Anne had showed him the awards, Louis had seen red. He had muttered something about fresh air to her, sprinted downstairs, and ripped open the front door, stomping onto the hard-packed dirt barefooted. He had felt too hot in his clothes, wishing he had a certain audience to show his annoyance to by yanking his hair or throwing things. And now he had arrived.

“Well, well, well.” Ice dripped from his every word, in contrast to the fire in his bloodstream. “Isn’t it the popstar himself?”

Harry turned ashen.

“It’s not—”

“It’s not what I’m thinking?” The same words managed to sound hostile coming from Louis’ mouth. “Shall I go back inside to obtusely play the boyfriend who has no wish for material riches, or is it enough for me to actually do the _pretending_ now?”

Their voices seemed to multiply even worse than the car door, but being overheard by the occupants of the house seemed trivial right then; not something Louis could focus on.

Harry started, “I never meant—”

“Any harm? Well, so far you have managed to wound my pride as a drama teacher with a respected degree. You are no better than the rest of celebrities: layer upon layer of before-planned double-dealing.”

Harry bit his lip. This time there was nothing seductive about it. For a moment, they stared at each other in silence across the space that separated them.

“It’s not like I have something bad to say about how I have been treated otherwise,” said Louis, “you know, with the food, and the movies, and all the sunshine. I just hoped…after last night, that there wouldn’t be any _larger_ surprises. That we would finally have grown more comfortable. I was almost about to tell my mum about having finally made a friend.”

“A friend,” said Harry, stunned.

“Yes. A friend, with whom you are supposed to share important things like this. But the worst thing,” Louis said, “the worst thing is that I know I will forgive you and your bloody dimples within an hour.”

Harry was shaking his head adamantly before Louis had finished his last sentence.

“No, the worst thing is that _I_ know that, and I might not deserve it no matter when you’ll do it. Isn’t it funny…I never thought I was bad at making friends.” He gave a self-depreciating laugh. “Look at me now. What a mess.”

Louis’ teeth clacked together. It was one thing to goad a man into anger with words, but bringing them into tears had no similar satisfaction—if any. Remorse and self-loathing pulsed through his body, pumped by his heart that felt like it was squeezed with a vice.

“Just…why lie to me? Why would you do _all this_ —” the pretending, the flirting, the confusing looks— “in the first place?”

Harry burst out, “Because you deserved it!”

“What,” said Louis, blankly.

“Fuck,” cursed Harry, uncharacteristically. “I definitely didn’t mean it that way. I meant that you are a good person, Louis Tomlinson. I hated being indebted to you. You give, and give, but do you ever get to receive?”

The tables had turned so quickly Louis could only stare. Harry didn’t even crack a smile, despite the pun-loaded wording; he was dead serious this time. It was like the tank containing his anger had suddenly lost its bottom, and Louis found himself unable to scale its level. Harry, pigeon-toed and idly fingering his car keys, made such a pitiful picture that Louis felt his anger ebb away in spite of himself.

“You treated me like I was a regular person,” Harry continued, earnestly. “It didn’t— _we_ didn’t feel like…like my fame had caused a power imbalance between us. You should never be…intimate with people who look up to you too strongly. I don’t want people to do something just because I tell them to.”

“And to ensure I stayed unimpressed, you refused reveal your identity, and risked me looking like a bloody _idiot_ in front of your family.” Louis felt an unwelcome sting behind his eyes. “Wow, what a nice picture you have of me.”

“Don’t do that,” Harry said.

“Do what?”

“Conceal your emotions with sarcasm.”

Louis felt a new wave of fire spread, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“See? That’s the entire point. You read me like an open book but give away nothing in exchange.”

Louis wrapped his arms around him in impersonation of comfort, but it was an empty gesture. For the second time that day, he shouldered past a Twist—or should he say, Styles. But this time, Louis was stopped; Harry’s hand had shot out and clamped over his upper arm.

“Maybe I like being the mystery for a change. Do you know how it feels to have a Wikipedia page naming all your exes, family members and childhood sports; Buzzfeed listing all your favorite foods so everyone and their mother can ‘eat like an A-list celebrity’ and being asked about your sex life live in GMA?” Louis tried to yank himself free, but the attempt had no real force behind it. “I liked how you didn’t have any motives other than getting a laugh out of me and making my day better. Not yours. Mine.”

Louis’ heart stuttered. When he made himself look at Harry, Harry’s eyes were boring into his.

“But you would tell a friend, right?” Louis urged, and broke out of Harry’s hold, gently. He spread both his hands onto his chest when he slowly enunciated, _“I_ want to be your friend, Harry Styles.”

“Do you really mean that? I don’t want you to feel like befriending me is your only option for saving your face in front of my family.” Harry let him take a few steps back, but continued looking at him as though wanting to get closer to a cornered animal. “I won’t keep information from you anymore, if that’s—”

“No, you big idiot. I like you and this won’t change any-fucking-thing. The deal’s still on. How thick can you get?”

Harry quipped, “About three and a half inches in girth.”

Louis fish-mouthed, and was annoyed that, despite his anger, Harry still had the ability to render his tongue useless. As he regained his wit, he said, “That was a rhetoric question, you curly-haired cunt,” although, suddenly, his chest felt a lot lighter.

“And you,” Harry said, the corners of his lips twitching, “are a drama queen.”

Something rang out, faraway past the sectional, steel door of the garage—the sound of a heavy door closing. They both stilled. Soon, steps were heard coming closer, and the garage door opened with a creak, letting in a steadily widening strip of light.

“Still here, Harry?” said Robin, outlined by light in the middle of the wide doorway. “Did the door open all right remotely?”

“Perfectly, thanks. You’re a miracle worker, Rob.”

Robin looked between the two of them, perhaps sensing, or even smelling, the tense atmosphere that could have been cut with a knife.

“Why don’t you kids go outside and enjoy the nature?”

Harry snapped out of it first. “Good idea.”

Outside, they walked to a place hidden from the view of the house, before Harry twirled on him again, face worried.

“So,” he started, “we’re still doing this?”

“I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know what I’m thinking. But I’ll stay. For you.”

Harry smiled; a genuine one Louis never wanted to see wiped off his face ever again, and reached for Louis’ shoulder, who felt the contact like small shock.

“Anything else you want to get off your chest?”

“Your teas were shit. Everything was fruity and tasteless. And the kind of milk you have is just plain wrong.”

Shaking his head affectionately in response, Harry suggested they get back into the house where Louis should probably make up some better excuse for Anne, and where the untouched movie would still be paused mid-opening credits. His legs suddenly weighted a ton.

“I,” Louis started, swaying on his toes, uncertain, “I think I’m gonna head for a walk.”

Harry frowned. “Should I join you?”

“No,” Louis said. “I’ll text you if I get lost.”

“And if you end up alone in some gritty hole like Pico?”

“I don’t need your charity, Styles.” A little prickly.

Harry let out a sound like someone had just picked up one of the many heavy flower pots from the nearest set-up, and smashed it into his chest.

Louis didn’t turn to confirm it.

 

***

 

Louis focused on the pleasant burn of muscle and the subtle wind that ruffled the loose sweatpants as he jogged down the sloping street.

Or tried to.

The day had gotten hotter, and he was sweating. Running felt like bicycling through a warm soup; the image was of no help to his thirst, nor his empty stomach.

He had just had to take too large a bite to swallow, hadn’t he? Bloody Harry Styles, and his stupid dimples, his stupid hair, and his stupid, drawling baritone that made his knees weak.

Suddenly, dreaming about how they could have met in Calabasas wasn’t funny at all. If they were to meet differently, their whole lives would have to change. Louis could be a sports journalist, and Harry the writer of the relationships column, and one day they would meet in the elevator. Or in the bathroom. That would be strange enough a place worthy of a memorable first meeting.

But no. In no alternative world would Louis want to rob the people of witnessing Harry’s genuine, polite, easy-going charm. He was bound to become a public figure, no matter what the circumstances. And that’s why Louis should lock his feelings away when continuing to play house with an alpha he barely knew, who would disappear out of his life before the year changed, and who would steal a large chunk of him as he went if Louis didn’t stop wishing, for there was no future in this.

He stopped at a red light, noticing a small tremor about the muscles of his legs. The people around him spared him little attention. A blue sign mounted on the streetlight read Hollywood. Helpful. Just _where_ in there had he wandered to? He was just pondering that when his eyes fell upon the large billboard for Saint Laurent above the roof of an In-N-Out.

Really, he thought as he watched the black-and-white board blankly, he was being a bit—a lot, said a small, nasty, Liam-ish voice—unfair to someone about their justified anxiety. It’s not like Harry had been purposefully misleading Louis’ omega-esque, courting-wired little brain.

Pfff. _As if._

The little shit was too oblivious of his own power. He felt his mouth quirk up, his cellphone a heavy weight in his pocket. He picked it up to shoot a few texts.

**> >I’m sorry. You’re right. I am a drama queen.**

**> >I did not, in fact, end up in any shady industrial areas. But is it still okay to cash in that promise of rescue party? I did say I would text…**

**> >I’ll call what-ever-this-was done. Finished. Buried. I’m at Sunset Strip by the way.**

The reply, so instantaneous it made Louis wonder if Harry had been waiting for it, said, _“Where_ at Strip?” and strangely, Louis got the idea the alpha had been smiling fondly while writing that.

**> >There’s a massive building site in front of me and the whole bloody sidewalk is closed. I’m sure you’ll find it. I’m the cute one in green.**

There was no reply to that. Louis counted fifteen minutes before an old, baby blue convertible pulled over next to the curb, and a familiar face grinned at him from the driver’s seat, eyes squinted behind his aviators.

“I heard there was a damsel in distress around here. Seen anyone? They would be brunet, blue-eyed, pretty short,” Harry gestured a height of approximately two feet, “and incredibly persuasive.”

“Ha. Ha. Hilarious.”

Harry smirked and reached over to open the passenger door from the inside—if there was such concept as ‘inside’ in that ghastly thing.

“Didn’t have this in neon pink or something?” Louis said, sliding in, and glaring at Harry reproachfully.

In answer, Harry nudged his chin pointedly at both sides of the streets where the people continued their lives like it was normal to see a 60’s Mercedes-Benz drive past and pick up a sweaty omega. Maybe it was. They could have been invisible, for all the attention they got.

“Everyone owns a convertible in California.”

“I don’t understand why. It looks like a box of matches on wheels. Plus, a windshield.”

Harry laughed. “Have you ever ridden one?”

“No, I suppose I haven’t.”

“There you have it. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Buckle up,” he said and revved the engine. They peeled off the curb, rising a bit of dust in their wake.

As they sped along the boulevard, Hollywood Hills a shadow on their left, seen through the gaps in the steady row of buildings and gas stations, Louis propped his feet on the dashboard. Harry was hunched over the wheel, aviators resting low on his nose. He didn’t say anything about the shoes atop his glove box, but turned to look at him when they idled at the fourth red light.

“Do you like it?”

“Well,” Louis amended, “at least it’s not one of those low to the ground sports cars. Doesn’t feel like you’re gonna wipe the whole of Sunset Boulevard with your arse.”

Harry burst into a goofy laugh, and sought for support from the steering wheel, resting his forehead atop his hands, while his shoulders shook with laughter. When he emerged, his eyes were misty with tears, trying to bodily twist his face into a sober expression. It ended up looking like he was trying not to sneeze.

“It sure puts the ‘style’ in Styles.”

A steady stream of pedestrians walked past the hood of the car. The car beside them on the lane turning right was driven by a woman bopping along to a song from the car stereo. A flip of the head locked their gazes, from where her eyes slid past him to Harry. She stiffened.

Louis wiggled his fingers at her. “Boo.”

The woman turned her wild-eyed look back to the road ahead. A fumbling hand lit a cigarette and the smoke billowed out of the rolled-open window. The song was long forgotten.

“Uh oh. You’ve been spotted.”

 _“We_ have been spotted,” said Harry, trying to get the fan’s attention but failed, while the cig was being brought to the lips in rising frequency. “Hope she’s able to drive safe.”

“Is that unlikely?”

“No,” Harry said with a gentle smile, “but I still worry.”

Louis waved a hearty goodbye at the fan when their car, gaining visibly more speed than the turning vehicle, sped past her as the light turned green.

“Okay,” Louis started, twisting to face Harry from where he had watched the car become distant. She had looked like she had seen a _ghost_. “We have a whole day ahead. Tourist attractions are out of question for obvious reasons…What next?”

“Why don’t you decide?”

“Because then we would be driving to Nobu with the other luxury convertibles to fight for a place in the waves.” Louis scanned Harry up and down. “And I don’t fancy you for a surfer.”

“And you do?”

“Once in Australia. Mum bagged herself a rich third husband to finance a two-week holiday.”

Harry said, “That’s amazing! I mean, the surfing. Not—well, you know what way I meant it to come out.”

“I do, I do.”

Louis smiled widely. The wind ruffled both their hair, Louis feeling it blowing his fringe off his forehead. Only the warmth kept his eyes from watering from the speed.

“Well,” Louis finally said, “I for one, am craving for a picnic. It’s been four months since I last ate outside in the nature, and I want lots of nice food, a big tree and trash-free grass.”

“I can work with that.”

“You can?” asked Louis, astonished. He had been joking. Mostly.

“Yes. We can order in something, or if you aren’t too hungry, we could drive to my place and cook us something to eat and then spread a quilt in my backyard.”

“Ohhhh,” Louis teased, “your multi-million dollar digs?”

“Is there no end to your dragging?”

At the mention of dragging, mouth stretching into an expression of playfulness, Louis’ gaze sweeped over the lanes for quick inspiration. “Oh, look! There’s one of those gull-wing doors.” He laughed nastily. “Looks like a propeller snapback!”

Harry sighed, and floored the car.

 

***

 

“It’s so warm,” Louis moaned. “I feel like I might be melting.”

It was hush under the trees, everything in greens and blues, so different compared to the greys of Chicago. Louis dramatically let his upper body go limp, only letting a little yelp when his shoulders hit something, head bumping against shapely thighs. Harry grunted under his sudden weight.

“Whoops.”

Harry glanced down at him before closing his eyes and shaking his head, fair lashes laying against his cheekbones behind the sunglasses. A person shouldn’t have looked so good from this angle. There was some stubble he must have missed when shaving that morning, and the hinge of his jawline, right below his ear, looked sharp enough to cut through his golden skin. The bow of his lip was stronger down here.

“Too warm? I could fetch you some water.”

The hinge looked even better when he spoke.

“No, I’m great. You sit your pretty arse down.”

Not that Harry would have moved from under him, now that both of them were comfortably seated.

“It’s nice like this,” Harry pointed out. “I like singing. I like having a conversation, and making jokes, but sometimes, you just have to…. _be_.” Harry waved a hand lazily at the greenery around them. The light warming up Louis’ face flickered when his arm momentarily blocked the sun. “Lay still in silence and enjoy.”

“All right, Buddha, if you need a quiet, peaceful place, you’d better go to that meditation tea house of yours.”

Above Louis, Harry’s mouth twitched. Louis, other hand idly caressing the grass, noted it was not dew-drenched, freshly cut and evenly green like at home; but dryer, rougher.

“It’s kinda rude, isn’t it?” Louis continued after a beat of silence. “Just lazing around like this. You must think I am horribly thirsty for luxury.”

Harry tipped his sunglasses up to hold his hair off his eyes before fastening his serious eyes on Louis. “There are many things you might be, Louis Tomlinson, but you’re not a shallow person.”

Louis hid his blushing preen. The house behind them, two storied and glass-façaded, looked regal. He could just imagine a family living there, a mated pair, a dog, three children. Gradually, in his thoughts, the alpha got the face of Harry, pampering a faceless omega. Soon, however, he found out he couldn’t keep Harry and another omega in his head for a long time. God, he was in too deep.

“Why buy something so large when you’re alone?” Louis asked.

“One day I won’t be,” said Harry defensively. “I thought eventually sharing the house with a mate, two point four children and a dog was romantic.”

Louis grimaced. Had Harry sensed his jab at the domesticity? He stared down at Louis, as though daring him to make a remark about it. Louis couldn’t.

“That’s nice. If I was them, I would be stupid to ask you to give this up. I mean, look at that tea house.” He pointed at said structure, four glass walls glinting in the shade of an oak, built above the stream Harry had mentioned way back on their first meeting. “Is it soundproof for meditation purposes or do you hear the murmur of the water and greenery around you?”

“Are you sure you have only meditating in your mind?”

Louis’ smiled broadly.

They ate, they drank, they laughed. Louis got introduced to some of the tattoos littering Harold’s body, and he to Louis’, one of which the alpha affectionately named Baby Stickman. Louis could have sworn Harry had started humming _Itsy bitsy spider_ when trailing a finger along his left shin.

“I performed while in a rut once,” Harry was explaining when the conversation had turned to how much tattoos stung, and what had been their most painful experience. “I wouldn’t recommend. The singing was easy, and there were far too many scents to really focus on one, but everyone should be warned about how uncomfortable and heavy your…lower parts get in skin-tight jeans.  A huge pain in the crotch.”

Louis snorted. “With those death traps for jeans, I have no doubt. Why on earth did you do it? There’s no shame in cancelling.”

Harry looked like he had lipped off, and was chastening himself. Louis didn’t get it; he wore a similar look when he was a hair’s breadth away from accidentally telling an occupational secret about any of the brats at his classes.

After it became obvious Harry would not answer, Louis started conversationally, “So, you’re _that_ Harry Styles. I’ve heard a lot about you, whether half of them are true or not.”

“Apparently not enough,” Harry smirked, “given that you didn’t recognize me—”

“I have a busy life!”

“—and I’m asking in a strictly professional, non-conceited way, I wonder how you obviously knew me, but did not recognize me? I thought I had blown my cover on several occasions, but it never happened.”

“Until today.” Bitterly.

“I’m sorry,” apologized Harry again.

“I know. I have seen you. I do not live under a rock, if that’s what you are insinuating. Was I supposed to connect you to the man who retrieved his first Grammy looking like an albino peacock? You with the Packers beanie and the useless Trivial Pursuit facts—if the game had a sex-questions-only category.”

The bridge of Harry’s nose becomes wrinkled. “I might have come across slightly too strong.”

Louis’ heart skipped a beat, and then started to beat twice as fast to make up for it. This was the first time either of them had acknowledged all their flirting prior to the deal…

Harry went to pick up the dishes, and Louis, high on sugar and sun, got an idea, and fished his phone out of his back pocket, and started to record.

“There, right in front of me, you can see a rare popstar in his natural habitat,” he whispered to the phone, twisting it to catch the alpha’s every movement. “He seems to be collecting plates. No one has found a reason for this strange custom yet.”

Harry looked up, the sides of his mouth quirked upwards. “Are you going all Sir David Attenborough on me?”

Louis ignored him, and angled the phone so that he could be seen in the video, too. “Popstars have a very distinguished way of communicating. I may have just stumbled across a mating ritual.”

Harry choked on his saliva. “Give me that.”

Louis said, “If I give you my phone and you delete this masterpiece, you are doing the dishes,” and giggled gleefully like he hadn’t laughed for a long, long time.

“Doing the dishes is perhaps not as glamorous as I had thought when I was sixteen, but I like being domestic. Keeps me grounded. I would gladly wash your dirty plates if it means ensuring the tape won’t go viral in an hour. I might lose fans.”

“Oh, puh-lease. You are the pop star; every omega’s fantasy,” Louis heard himself saying, distantly, like he hadn’t given the words the promise to come out. Harry’s words had sent his thoughts whirling out of control. “I think throwing them off would require something else than showing having a liking for household chores. Quite the opposite.”

“Truly?” Harry asked with false innocence, grinning. “Am I your fantasy?”

“My fantasies are private, you little sneak,” he said, and waggled a finger at Harry who looked unrepentant. “I’ll tell you wh—”

Just then, there was a whirr and click somewhere nearby, Louis turning to look at his left, only to get a short impression of a metallic gadget peeking out of the grass before it started to rain. He cried out, high-pitched but lazed with a certain promise of murder, as the cold drizzle hit his sun-heated skin.

Harry started to laugh, drops of water littering his hair, caught on his lashes. “I totally forgot the sprinklers,” he said, and snatched the basket he had collected the dirty dishes into with his right hand, and helped Louis up with the other. Together, they fled indoors, drenched but laughing.

Louis’ bare feet made a _slap, slap, slap_ sound against the patio, never ceasing until suddenly veering to the left. Right into the pool.

Harry could only watch in fascinated horror as Louis curled up into a ball in the air and broke the smooth, blue surface of the chlorine water with an excited “Whoop!”. He asked, “Are you alright,” from the head that surfaced, and walked to the edge, about to help the smaller man out of the pool. And then he slipped.

The word tilted. Harry hardly got any time to notice which way he fell, but the result was the same. Dripping wet, ears and mouth full of pool water he coughed out, blinking the drops out of his lashes. Louis’ blurry shape was swimming towards him.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, coming to bicycle the water beside Harry. His fringe was plastered to his forehead, and his lashes clung together, casting faint, pointy shadows in the blueish illumination of the lit pool. “I thought you had hit your back against the edge.”

“It must’ve been just the angle.” Harry stretched his back in search for cricks, toes just touching the bottom. “My bruises are purely of the emotional sort.”

“Good,” said Louis, lingering to scan him from head to toe, then starting to swim to the shallow end where the flight of tile steps leading into the pool started. Harry couched some more water out of his windpipe, and swam after Louis.

The water at the shorter flank of the pool, when Louis reached it, was up to his chest, lowering gradually when he descended the steps, Harry at his heels.

“Be careful,” Louis said, with a certain curl to his mouth Harry didn’t necessarily like right then, “the tiles might be _slippery.”_

Harry playfully shoved him, saying, “That only happened _once_ , and now it’s a ‘thing’?”

Only to watch in fright as Louis lost his footing, bringing Harry down with him. They both took a tumble back into the knee-deep water. The next thing Harry knew, the edge of a step was digging into his back, and the one lower that into his bum, but all that was trivial compared to the lapful of wet omega clinging onto him. When had it happened?

The wet shirt clung to supple curves, eyes as blue and luminous as the artificially lit pool around them. It was hard to find the will to move.

Louis swallowed, hard. “I can confirm the slippery tiles _are_ very certainly a thing.”

Harry didn’t smile. Before he knew, the alpha’s hand reached to him and drew his wet fringe away, and cupped Louis’ neck, bringing their faces closer, mouths hovering just inches away. A chance to say no, to save himself from having to deal with the aftermath of their loss of restrain. But it was hard when they were so close Harry’s warm breath hit Louis’ lips every time their chests rose against one another. Then Harry was so close it became impossible to see the hooded green eyes resting on his features without crossing eyes, and their lips touched. First trying, searching, I’ll-match-your-level-of-zeal-but-no-further, and then waning into lingering motions of ending the kiss that tasted of chlorine water.

“This,” Louis said afterward, “was not in my contract.”

Harry smiled but said nothing for a while.

“Don’t think.”

 _Don’t think._ It was by far the stupidest tip he had ever received—and yet, the most useful at the same time. How many times had over-thinking it reduced them to a blundering mess? How many of those times—those times that had felt real, sacred, _theirs_ —had started from a slip of his control?

In the spirit of this advice, Louis slipped his hand into the curls he had wanted to touch for weeks. They were wet and heavy, but smooth. Every curl that passed Louis’ fingers had Harry angling his head further back, Louis’ fingers slipping in the waterdrops on his cheeks.

The alpha’s hands made their way under his shirt, warm fingers pressing into the dimples on his back. His body temperature ran naturally low compared to Harry’s that was burning against his forearm and chest even through his shirt. Harry opened his body to him, and Louis laid himself against him.

 “God, you are nice to kiss,” Harry said.

He looked dazed gazing up at Louis, finger tracing a slow circle on his wet, sweats-clad left cheek. On his lap, Louis was high enough Harry had to tilt his head up. His eyes were heavy-lidded.

“Thanks, but it would have been better if you didn’t taste like chemicals.”

“Chemicals?” A little insulted.

Louis didn’t get to answer he had had better, because he was pulled into a firm kiss, eyes fluttering at the force of it that must have left a red mark on Harry’s lower face from Louis’ stubble. Harry’s fingers were behind his neck, pressing his head down. The full lips slotting with his were soft and yielding, though.

When he let Louis pull back, Harry asked, “Did that blot out the chlorine enough for you?”

Louis gazed back at him, delighted in seeing the planes of Harry’s face from a different angle, and thought there must be a ‘but’ coming in the future—because people didn’t get things this good without a price. Perhaps, his price would be that this—whatever _this_ was—would end in a five days’ time.

“Yeah, it got better towards the end.”

After that, there seemed to be no need to stop exploring the . It was only until even Harry’s warmth wasn’t enough to stop the shivers from rolling through Louis’ body, that they withdrew indoors for dry clothes.

 

 

***

 

“Show me your back.”

He had been telling that for several minutes now, sitting on top of the trembling washing machine where their clothes were seen circling happily through the door. Harry stood stubbornly in the middle of the utility room, hands fisted in the hem of his t-shirt as though afraid Louis would rip it off him.

“It’s fine,” he argued for the hundredth time.

“After a fall like that? Bathing it in the lukewarm pool water?”

“Chlorine prevents waterborne infections.”

“Where do you hear shit like that?” Louis asked from no one in particular. He tugged upward the waist of the sweat shorts he had borrowed, other hand curled around the tube of anti-inflammatory cream and antiseptic. He had found them from a first aid kit stuffed into a closet beside the laundry.

Harry continued to stare at nothing mulishly until, after a long time, he reached behind his neck and tugged the shirt off with a single maneuver. Louis blinked at the exposed black laurels hugging the gentle slope of his tummy.

“I’m not bleeding,” Harry told him. “See?”

He turned, and presented him the breadth of his shoulders. It _was_ better than Louis had feared. No blood, only redness in the skin where the rough, skid-preventing tile had handled it like a sand paper. It would have stung like a bitch during the night. So will the medicine, Louis thought vindictively, as he sneakily uncapped the antiseptic and set to work.

Harry yelped; Louis drew his hands back.

“No,” Harry said, “don’t stop.”

“As you wish,” he muttered, and swiped experimentally, still expecting a fight, “although considering that scream, I would have thought you wanted me to stop.”

“Do I look like a screamer to you?”

Louis kicked him with his dangling foot, and kept tapping the pinked skin with a wad of cotton. He fought to keep his strokes methodical, touch impersonal. Harry kept complaining quietly under his breath, but did not move from under Louis’ ministrations.

How had they managed to get past this clumsiness? According to all sense, it should have been this awkward in the pool. Where, then, had the simmering tension between them appeared, and, as swiftly as it had come, faded? Oh yeah, Louis thought, he was _thinking_ again.

The back of the head in front of him was mussed. The hair at the nape disturbed. Louis’ hand had been there…

“You kissed me.” Harry’s words were as out of the blue as his fall into the pool.

Louis fought not to halt his work. “Did I? Must have been a really long one to last until we both froze out buttocks off. And I think it was your tongue that was in my mouth on several occasions, I may add.”

“Back. You kissed me back and I definitely did not imagine it.” There was no suspicion on his face; only confusion. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Louis answered, truthfully, and turned Harry around by force when he made to turn around to gauge his expression. “Should we pretend it never happened?”

“Yes? I mean, no.” The shoulders in front of Louis slumped. Their blades sharp. “Ah, I don’t know. I think it’s a bit too late for that. Do you think we should?”

Louis finished his work and set the tubes onto the counter next to him. Harry craned his neck, trying to see his back, but when Louis made himself look at Harry, Harry’s eyes were on him. Expectant, hopeful. Questioning.

“I was kind of hoping you would have an answer for that.”

Harry’s eyes dropped to his lips. “Let’s not. It’s too late, and we’re too old to dodge round each other like silly teens.” He detached himself from the counter, and stepped out of the space bracketed by Louis’ thighs. He asked, “Movie night?”

 

 

***

 

Louis woke long after dawn to find an arm over his tummy. Under it, his skin was sticky with sweat. He grimaced; the movement felt uncomfortable on his chapped lips, and he licked them slowly.

A hair caught on his tongue.

Trying to spit it out of his mouth, unsuccessfully, Louis released his arm from under the duvet and plugged it out, annoyed. Only, it wasn’t a loose hair. The person attached to it groaned, a puff of warm air against Louis’ cheek.

He knew what he would find there—and didn’t want to look—but when his head tilted to left, he saw Harry’s parted lips moving around a tranquil exhale. Somehow, he had moved closer during the night, reaching for Louis over the pillow Louis had planted there the night before. Somewhere behind him, his phone chirped.

Harry let out a questioning grunt, the duvet rising as his body changed position under it, and Louis felt a knee being wedged between his thighs. Snug against his morning wood. _Great_.

He pressed a palm against the bulge, feeling it tingle and fatten up even more now that he was conscious of it. Of course he would wake up with a hard on now, on the other side of the king sized bed in Harry’s master bedroom. He was cocooned in Harry’s scent, and very likely unable to look at him in the eye.

And the clock said it was lunchtime. Shit.

“C’mon, Harry. Wake up.” He struggled to elbow him, Harry releasing him with a whine after Louis’ shoulder hit his chin, but only to curl into a tight ball, drawing the blankets with him so that the left side of the bed looked like a pile or meringue. “Up!”

“I’m up,” mumbled the Harry the Meringue. His head appeared from underneath, hair a mess, lids heavy. “Well, a part of me certainly is.”

His voice sounded like sin.

“Oh my God.” Louis felt his face heat all the way from his neck to the tip of his ears. It wasn’t fair. His cock still _ached_. “You’re hopeless. Do you even filter all that…filth that comes out of that mouth?”

Harry stretched like a cat. “What do you think are our chances of being able to stay here, in bed, just lying like this all day?”

“I think that would give your mum quite the mental picture if we don’t arrive for lunch, but sure, go for it if you want the woman who gave birth to you to think you are getting the best, the most thrilling sex of your life.”

“The best?” A little amused.

“Mmmhm,” said Louis, gathering his duvet as a protective armor around his nether region. _“If_ you had bedded me, you would know that.”

Louis crawled out with the duvet, feeling drowsy eyes following his movement lazily as he found his yesterday’s clothes, washed, dried, and folded on a chair at the end of the bed. His phone binged again on top of the nightstand.

“Who’s it from?” Louis asked, one hand fisted in the impromptu waist cloth, the other pulling on the sweats that smelled like Harry’s detergent. He heard the rustling as Harry leaned over his side if the bed to read it.

“’Not Lad Yet smiley face’? What kind of name is that?”

Louis stopped pulling on the sweats. “Oh, that’s just my Liam. My best mate from back home. I wonder what he’s doing. Isn’t it, like, ten in the evening there?”

Harry didn’t respond. Even the sheets had stopped rustling.

Louis straightened up and turned around in alarm, ready to accuse him of reading his other texts, or messing with his contacts or whatever he was doing, but found Harry on his stomach, biting his lip, and looking at Louis’ phone like it had ran over his cat.

“What?” He leaned back against one of the bedposts and crossed his arms. Only to fist one hand into the duvet once again as it started slipping. “Why the long face?”

“It says here it’s your birthday,” Harry said, angling the phone screen at Louis. “I didn’t mean to read it, but the notification showed the first sentence. _‘Happy b-day mate. Half way to 50 jk’_ and a lot of exclamation marks and a winking emoji,” he read out, the pout on his lips stretching his plush, carnation pink lower lip unfairly far. “Were you going to mention it at all? Twenty-five sounds quite important.”

Louis let his legs slide out under him, and sank down the bedpost, landing hard on his bum. He felt incredibly tired all of a sudden as he ran his fingers through his bedhead.

“Ugh,” he said, fighting them free from a knot. “I was better off you not knowing—or anyone. But thanks for the reminder to the both of you.”

“What? Surely you didn’t think I would be put out by the fact that I was da—that I was doing this with an older omega? “

“You are hardly the type to go for a more experienced lover. Not at the age of twenty-two. Which, FYI, is younger only by twenty-six months.”

“I never told you— _hold on.”_ Harry rolled across the bed, coming to sit on the foot of it, vital parts thankfully still under the white duvet. “Did you check my Wikipedia page?” Harry asked gleefully. “You totally Googled me, didn’t you?”

“No,” Louis could hear his voice betraying him as he eyed the door of the en suite, “I was just skimming. While I was waiting for the tea water to boil Just to make sure there wouldn’t be any further surprises.”

Harry lowered his guilty gaze on his lap. “You know you don’t always have to escape to the bathroom to change. I promise I won’t look.”

 _It’s not looking I’m worried of,_ thought Louis. _But that you’ll think little of it._

Looking suddenly pensive, Harry started to twiddle his toes. The big toe was long, and funny shaped, and there was a stub beside the littlest ones; like he had almost been born with six. Didn’t they say an exception confirmed the rule? Harry truly was perfect.

“You should have told me today would be your birthday before I dragged you here for my own selfish reasons, you know. You could have spent Christmas and birthday with your friends.”

Louis’ head jerked up.

“What friends? You are the only American I have genuinely liked so far.” He started to pick nonexistent lint off sweats. “I feel like we have something in common; something to talk about.”

Harry’s face softened.

“Besides,” Louis continued, “wasn’t this whole thing about spoiling me rotten?” A grin spread on his face. “This is your prime time to show me what a birthday on Christmas Eve can be like at its finest. And not treating it like the both key events are one and the same.”

That worked like magic.

Harry, face shining with excitement, said, “I need to call mum to make lunch just for three. I’m taking you out for late brunch!”

Without further ado, Harold jumped up, seemingly forgotten all about the duvet situation, and ran to the bureau completely in the nude. Louis, too shell shocked to have registered any further details beside the show of _lots_ of sun kissed skin, watched the wiggling of a very perky bum as Harry pulled item after item and threw them over his shoulder onto the bed.

“I-I’ll just,” Louis stammered, pointing to the general direction of the bathroom beyond the wall, “go…yeah.”

He scrambled up, fighting to get his legs steady under him again, and escaped to the ensuite with a rustle. He, soon after shutting the door with a hasty bang, thought he heard a muffled belly laugh.

“Shit,” Louis said, hands gripping the edge of the sink, “shit, shitshit, _shit.”_

“Don’t let my mum hear your potty mouth,” came muffled through the door. “She still has the swear jar in some cupboard. I think I saw a row of mason jars in the kitchen at her place.”

“Really?” Louis didn’t recognize his own voice. “I wonder how large the tip was…”

He heard Harry walking in the room beyond, soft footsteps coming closer, until he spoke right behind the door.

“What’s the matter?”

“I just realized I don’t have any brunch-worthy clothes with me here,” Louis said, and glanced at the mirror above the vanity. He let out a frustrated noise at the sight of his hair tangled into an ultimate bedhead. He fixed it with swift flicks of his wrist, wondering what he had done during the night. Fought with the pillow? “Or have you forgotten I had to borrow a towel and dry clothes after our sprinkler incident?”

Louis heard a thump against the door, Harry mumbling, “No, I have not,” so quietly Louis must have misheard. He eyed the white door as if it had started speaking. “I can lend you some more.”

 _Terrific._ “You do that.”

He did. And probably didn’t have the heart to tell him he hadn’t fit in them since 2009.

After twirling in front of the mirror for a few minutes longer, Louis considered himself decent. The jeans hugged his ass and circled his hips a bit tighter than anything he had bought since he turned twenty, and the cut—low-waist with large back pockets and hardly any room in front—was a bit bolder than he would have liked, but he had to admit…it didn’t look as bad as he remembered…

And then Harry knocked on the ajar door of the ensuite, dressed to the nines. After he saw Louis, though, he smashed his shoulder straight into the doorjamb.

“Fuck—ouch.”

“You alright?” Louis asked, watching Harry massage his shoulder. “I though you said your mum would have disapproved of swearing.”

“Yes, well,” said Harry, “we don’t always agree with everything. You done?”

“Just my hair left.”

Harry looked at him up and down. He was not in a suit, Louis noted with great relief since the loaned jeans had a beginning of a hole where Harry’s thighs had rubbed together. A formalwear would have broken the fourth wall between Famous Harry and His Harold.

Harry said, “Leave it like that. It’s not that fancy a place.” He stepped closer, and touched the bit where Louis’ hair was longest, right next to his right temple, and twisted it between his thumb and forefinger. “I like it free of product. It looks good soft.”

Louis, suppressing a preen, raised his eyebrows at him.

“Not fancy? I’ve been out plenty of times on my birthday. I sincerely hope this isn’t you trying your hardest.”

“The best things are always,” Harry said, and put his lips to Louis’ ear, startlingly close, and his breath raised the hairs on his neck as he finished, “ _always_ a surprise.”

At that, Louis felt a sudden, strange courage rise inside him, and murmured back, “Naturally. I wouldn’t have expected you to be uncut, but some extra foreskin is always a nice surprise,” and trotted off, smirking.

Later, when they were in the car, Louis tried to read the streets’ names as they idled at a red light or slowed at a crossing. Around the time they turned to a street that started with Civic-something, his phone went off with a buzz, caller ID blinking a picture of Liam with sharpie-drawn doodles on his unimpressed face.

“Traitor,” he answered as soon as he picked it up.

“Wha—if this is about the toothpaste Oreos, Stan was in it, too.”

“No,” Louis gritted, propping his feet on the dashboard, “this is not about _pranks_ , but thanks for proving where your loyalty lies by singing like a canary, you snitch. It’s because of your text this morning that I’m forced to get a fancy snack at some sort of upscale beach community where the _caramel creamer probably costs more than my rent_.”

The last past was targeted at Harry, who was humming next to him, both hands tapping a rhythm against the thin-rimmed wheel, but Louis could tell he was paying attention. He’s eyes were too fixedly focused on the horizon not to be listening in.

“Oh, by who? The LA friend?” Louis could hear Liam squint. “You aren’t dating someone without telling me, are you?”

“Nah, he’s just being a gentlealpha.”

“You’ve never called me that.” Accusing.

“That’s because I know you too well, runt. You need to up your game. When asked what is the sexiest an omega can wear, you do _not_ answer daisy dukes.” Louis looked to his left briefly to see whether Harry was paying attention. “A gentleman diplomatically answers _‘smile’_ with a star-crossed look on his face.”

Harry was laughing, the knuckle of his index finger stuffed between his lips to stop the sounds from escaping. Louis elbowed him just as Liam said, “She looked nice in those!”

Louis, barely managing not to face palm, asked, “Did you have something important to say?”

“Huh? Oh, right! About your birthday. I couldn’t really decide what to buy, and I waited until my paycheck arrived, and mail ordered you a surprise. It might take three more weeks before it’s shipped there….When are you back to Chicago, again?”

“Look, take your time. I’ll be there somewhere ‘round next year for sure.”

Liam all but growled through the line, “Are you sure it’s just a casual lunch? Because to me, this sounds an awful lot like you are trying to prove your wit to someone next to you who you find attractive.”

Louis feet slipped off the dashboard, heart beating wildly at getting caught. Harry side-eyed him.

“Oh my God, that is it, isn’t it?” Liam declared through the line, far too loudly for comfort. “You have the hots for your rich friend!”

“Goodbye, Liam.” Louis hung up, and pretended that had not at all been an obvious confirmation. He ignored his phone, too, when it buzzed against his thigh. It was probably some gleeful messages about finally having found his heart, and a threat to get a hold of Harry’s number and send him all the unflattering pictures and stories. Fat chance.

“You have a very…unique relationship,” started Harry after a short silence during which Louis’ phone had chimed three or four times more. “I feel like there’s an inside joke to this birthday thing—How you tease each other about it so freely.”

“It’s not much.”

“Bull. You’re interesting.”

“Very well,” agreed Louis, easily flattered. “We actually met during Liam’s ninth birthday. I was playing footie in the park—”

“Footie,” Harry echoed, looking like a dad repeating a funny word their child had said.

“Yes, _footie_. If you are quite finished, I would like to continue the story. So, when I was at the park, I saw a boy crying. Mum had always told to how important it is to make people happy, so I went to comfort him.” At this point he had Harry’s full, undivided attention. “He had just moved, and told me he had sent cards to three of his new friends, a cute brunette girl and two boys he had shown his Batman figurines to, but in the end, the only one at his party had been his dreary Aunt Marjorie and three cousins. So I volunteered as his new, cool friend.”

“You volunteered,” echoed Harry. “This—you’re saying you really befriended this kid without any prior knowledge of them?”

“Well, there might or might not have actually been an Aunt Mary instead, who was really nice and made sick cookies, but yeah.”

Harry changed lanes, looking like he didn’t quite know what to do with his life after this revelation. The sun made its appearance from behind a building, and Louis had to raise a hand to shade his eyes.

“So, what do you wish to get? As your birthday present. Anything at all?” Harry asked after a moment of silence.

“Are you trying to buy my forgiveness?”

“You can never go wrong with bribes.”

That, thought Louis, would be horribly immoral of both of them. Although the prospect of seeing Liam’s jealous face when he landed smoothly and spectacularly at Heathrow, wrist decorated with a newly gleaming, ten-grand Rolex was tempting.

Instead Louis said, “I think I have outgrown the age where presents are a must.” Harold opened his mouth indignantly, but Louis continued, “It’s nice to just spend the day as you want, with the people you want.”

Harold’s mouth twitched. “What are you? Sixty? Don’t overthink it.”

 _Don’t think._ There it was again. Louis was starting to feel like grating his teeth together every time he heard it.

“Look,” Louis turned his body as fully as he could in the confined space to face Harry, “this is terribly noble of you, but you asked me to fake a relationship with you. I’m not expecting to be fucking courted. Don’t waste all your time on someone like me who might be beyond caring for these kind of gestures.”

“ _Waste_ all of my time? On you? I thought we agreed on us being friends. This is what a friend would do.”

“And the kissing?”

Harry startled; like Louis, he had not expected yesterday to be brought up even though they had not agreed to ignore it. He looked wounded, like Louis had just thrown his under the bus despite promising not to, and, oddly, Louis wanted to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Instead, he clasped his hands together, intertwining each finger firmly in his lap.

“Friends with benefits?” Harry deadpanned eventually.

“My, my…. How awfully quick you are to change the label of our relationship” And then a horrible thought struck him: “This isn’t a date, right? Because you would tell me if you had ulterior motives, wouldn’t you?”

Harry sighed, but his voice, when he explained himself, was patient. “It’s a brunch. A late brunch. Just as friends. Lads hanging around, having a good time…I think that was the manliest thing I have said whole week.”

 

***

 

Green. Everything was green from the pots behind them; the hedge working as a visual barrier from the busy street; to the dress of the waitress that had handed them the laminated menus, and half of the food itself on said book.

They had been showed to the corner of the outdoor patio, Louis taking in the couch making a steep ninety-degree angle around the square table, forcing them to either scrunch together to fit either side, or have awkward footsie through brunch from their respective seats. Thus, Louis found himself knees pressed against Harry’s left thigh, perusing the options, trying to call to mind anything of his B from Intense French Course.

He would never have believed how sensitive one’s knees could be: every nudge was a battering ram, every shift a sensory overload, and Louis wanted to scream when Harry laid a nonchalant arm on the turn of the couch, hand coming to rest just shy of Louis’ shoulder.

He nearly did scream, after the waiter had returned, when Harry made to give room for the water pitcher she placed onto the table, dragging his napkin and glass closer to Louis.

Harry, eventually, after he had watched Louis’ eyes flitting between the patrons there as though disbelieving, asked, “What is it?”

“It’s just weird. I’m trying to take it all in.”

“Such as?”

“How normal it is. This,” Louis looked around again as if, by magic, one of the tables had acquired golden plate and a crystal vase while his gaze had been elsewhere, “is just a regular café.”

“What did you expect? I try to avoid the Hollywood scene when I don’t have to engage with that particular lifestyle.”

“I get it. You’re staying relatable. Stop lying to yourself and help yourself some caviar—you fell out of touch with the general public about 30 million ago.”

Distancing himself from the likes of Kardashians had kept him grounded, then? Harry certainly didn’t take him for granted, like someone other Hollywood’s darling could have if they received all the attention Harry got. He didn’t let it get to his head; he appeared to appreciate every smile Louis gave him, every laugh he got out of him.

 _Click_ , said something at Harry’s general direction. After yesterday, Louis had been a bit jumpy at shutter-ish noises, and thus he looked up, accusing. But it was Harry that had his phone out.

“What?”

The sun reflecting off the back of the rainbow phone cover was nothing compared to the shine of Harry’s eyes as he dimpled at Louis.

“I liked your expression. It was a good look on you.”

“You must mean,” Louis drew his upper lip into an exaggerated sneer, “overwhelmed and disgusted they have the balls to ask $9.50 for one portion of frozen yoghurt.”

“Is that what it was? I thought it was almost… endeared.”

They gave their order. Harry got them a coffee, a tea, sandwiches, and a sorbet with two spoons. The sun shining down upon them and their brunch, Harry’s hair looked extra frizzy today, curls seemingly having their own mind. Some might have argued the white blouse was _sheer_. For the sake of his sanity, Louis called it thin.

“The guy sitting behind me two tables away,” started Harry, leaning closer to Louis in order to be heard over the raucous laughter that started at a near table full of celebrants. “Handsome, isn’t he?”

Louis frowned, turned, and frowned again. “Not my type.”

“What is your type?” If he didn’t know better, he would have said Harry looked almost sly. “Is _that_ guy your type?”

Louis didn’t look. “No.”

Harry thumbed his lower lip distractedly, an elbow on the table.

“And him?” A chin pointed at whoever.

“No,” Louis repeated, rather crossly, when it became obvious Harry hadn’t listened to his not so subtle clues. “This isn’t a new way of discreetly trying to find out if _you_ are my type, is it?”

“’Course not,” said Harry unconvincingly. “And what about him—wait, no. That’s shouldn’t be anyone’s type. Looks like they are having a fight.”

Louis, intrigue now newly found, chanced a glance towards the far right corner of the patio. They weren’t the only ones looking; the three or so tables had turned to look at the omega currently hitting the alpha in the head with her purse, shouting something that rhymed with cheeping custard.

 “Yikes, that looks serious.” Serious was not the word one would have described the look on Harry’s face, though. He looked entertained. Until noticing that Louis’ face had soured. “Hah, straight people…What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Please, I’m not blind. Obviously something upset you. It isn’t me, right?”

Louis let out a frustrated noise. “You don’t have to try so hard all the time,” he said, and Harry looked taken aback. “I know you have this rosy picture of a relationship but for some of us, the only bench mark we can afford to set on a relationship is fidelity.”

 “But...but that’s doing the bare minimum—if that! What’s the rush to settle for _adequate?_ Surely there will be other and better options, right?”

Harry had abandoned eating altogether now.

 “C’est la vie, Harry Styles,” said Louis, pausing his fingers where they had idly pushed his scattered bread crumbs into a small hill, and decorated it with the dressing-covered lettuce leaves fallen from the overflowing sandwich. _“You_ are an alpha. _You_ don’t have a window of fertility that decreased every year after the start of your heats.”

Harry looked crushed. “I’m—”

“Please, can we not talk about relationships?”

“Sorry, it’s all I can think about recently.” There was something in his voice that made Louis pay attention. “This…thing…between us has made me think.”

“About settling down?”

Harry nodded. Louis eyed the angle of him, body language-wise open towards him, and wondered how many of the patrons believed they were on a real date. “And mating. The whole deal.”

And so Louis found himself thinking, not for the first time, if they were doing the right thing. If his presence and the pretense they kept up confused their minds like this, was it fair for them to let it continue, and evolve into something much more than a wistfulness. Maybe the kissing had been nothing more than scents messing with their heads…

Harry sighed. “This isn’t the kind of birthday celebration I was aiming for. At least, our situations should be reversed, rather than you having to listen to me whining…”

Louis zoned out.

“He cheated on me,” he blurted out after a while, startling Harry into silence.

“Huh?”

“My ex. He had another omega behind my back. That’s what was bothering me. I found the jerk in the car. It was jumping up and down like a broken washing machine.”

In front of his lowered gaze, the sorbet was quickly melting in the Los Angeles sun. It had frozen Louis’ tongue and stained Harry’s lips pink. At the moment, they were twisted into a disapproving angle.

 He said, “I’m sorry. He didn’t deserve you.”

“Thank you.” Softly.

Butterflies erupted in Louis’ stomach, a warm feeling of infatuation spreading despite trying to keep them caged. It was a nice place. The people looked happy; families with kids, young and old couples living what Louis pictured as the Californian dream of a gated house and a nice car. Sometimes he thought an acting career wouldn’t be so bad.

Harry was speaking about his fans. How they had told him his music had helped them get over bad stages in their lives, and the way he spoke of it—with tenderness and compassion—made Louis feel guilty he couldn’t quite focus on it. Instead, he watched Harry tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear, or how a small frown line appeared between his eyebrows when he related Louis a touching fan meeting, looking like a GQ cover.

No. Louis could never reach that kind of necessary appeal.

“Harry!”

They half-turned at the same time and saw a bubbly-looking blond who waved at them before starting to inch his way around the tables towards them. Louis felt as though someone had injected some of the sorbet into his bloodstream, and when he looked at Harry, he saw his worry mirrored in his. This guy had not been included in his briefing material, but was, by the look of it, not a fan. Someone important enough to blabber to the Twists if he smelled something fishy.

“Hiya, mate,” said the young man once he reached the table. “Didn’t think I would see ya here without having to push through a barricade of teen— _whoa_.”

Louis received several uncomprehending, wide-eyed blinks of deep blue eyes. Then, after the blond had not so subtly sized him up, a sly smirk had started to stretch there, as though he had come to a realization just by looking at Louis. Louis’ feeling of panic turned into suspicion. What? What wasn’t he let in on?

“Hi, there,” said the blond, raising brows at Harry, who seemed to get what he was hinting at. Harry looked back at him imploringly.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you ‘round,” he said and thrust out a hand. “Niall Horan, his best mate, although I’d be very disappointed if ya didn’t know that.”

 _“What_ are you doing here?” Harry asked, not that courteously.

“Mate, it’s been nothing but rain and sleet in Ireland for two weeks! Bit of a downer on even my Christmas spirit.”

Louis’ stomach flipped. He had forgotten, again, it was his birthday.

Niall continued talking, making it very easy for them continue this charade for neither could say a word between. Through all this, Louis was watching Harry; half his brain recording important details into memory, other half taking in Harry’s look of polite interest.

For the past few days he had watched his face to detect even the smallest hints of lie, and found them both easily accessible and downright impossible to find. As though he chose when to be caught at the lie. Or he hadn’t lied at all.

“—and Greg’s coming next week with his wife and the kid,” Niall was saying, and looked almost ill at the thought. The bloke was scared stiff! “They hinted they might leave me alone with the tiny terror for an afternoon.”

Louis watched him shudder in badly concealed amusement. “It’s a child,” he told him, “not a flammable substance.”

“Not that you know. He’s a Horan,” muttered Niall, leaning an arm against their table. He eyed the now completely melted sorbet like he considered stress-eating it.

Though he was standing, Louis suspected they must have been around the same height, but of different built. While he was small but curvy, Niall was scrawny yet somehow broader.

Niall continued, “Though I suppose I should have known you would be the kid-loving type.”

He beamed so contagiously down at Louis that he couldn’t help but smile back.

“I think they sell beer at the bar after noon,” said Harry, suddenly.

It was clear through his body language that whoever this guy was, Harry had not wanted to include him to the lie. Niall’s grin morphed into a puzzled look before straightening himself so fast he might have pulled a muscle.

“I’ll go search for that waitress I saw earlier.”

He left, and Louis blinked after him.

“That was rather abrupt,” he said, and looked at Harry, expecting to find him smirking, but found him still looking—glaring?—after his friend. It was a look he had not seen before; he couldn’t quite explain it. Disapproval? “I’m sure he didn’t really mean to take off like that.”

Harry snapped out of it. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Nothing; just speaking to myself.”

When their time to leave came, Harry went to the toilet while Niall and his sweating pint kept Louis company, continuing to chat amiably as they walked out, and it wasn’t until they had reached his car that Louis realized the blond’s face could pull off a decent frown.

“Listen,” Niall whispered, suddenly, leaning closer and keeping the car door open, “is he still sore about…y’know, last month? It was kinda my fault, for drinking him under the table, and all. Although,” he chuckled, “a clover leaf’s not worst of all tattoos.”

Louis latched on quickly. “It’s fine. He—he seemed really…fond of it.”

Louis couldn’t quite stop the blush from spreading. Niall made an aborted move to duck inside the car, but whirled to face Louis again.

“Just to be sure,” he said, frowning, “I hope, in the future, I’ll be first to know about important business like my best mate’s relationship getting serious or I’ll have you cunts regret it. And try to find the time to pay a visit if I survive this season.” The smile returned as if it had never disappeared. “You know where to find me.”

With that, he went for a half hug, half manly pat before ducking into the car. Louis was left perplexed, and only stopped staring at his own reflection on tinted window after the _vroom_ of the engine startled him into mobility.

 

***

 

Louis neared them from behind. Just over the back of the couch, the two heads were visible: Anne’s towel turban and a tuft of curls that belonged to Harry who was leaning to his mother, and who had sunk so low in the chair only the top of his head could be seen.

When he rounded the couch, facing the two of them, he was struck by Harry’s face again. The beauty marks beside his lips standing out in the sun; but even darker against the golden skin was Harry’s hair, fanning nearly black across Anne’s shoulder as she carded her fingers gently through it while turning the pages of her book every now and then.

“Hi, love,” said Anne, fixing her towel turban that had tilted to the left. As she moved, her exposed forearms glittered with the aftermath of a bath bomb. “How was the date?”

Louis fought down the subsequent stiffening. “Great. We met a friend.”

“Which friend was that?”

“Niall,” said Harry.

“Oh, he’s in the States? If he’s not too busy we should ask him to visit. He could fire up the grill like last time. Robin sure would be ecstatic for red meat.”

“Would he indeed…” Louis muttered, toes digging into the smooth terrace board. Harry, perhaps sensing they should act a bit more loved up after a successful date, made grabby hands at him until Louis sat down on the arm rest.

Anne smiled at them warmly.

“Tell me, Louis, what does your mother do for work.”

“Oh, she’s not…working.” He faltered, and kicked himself for sounding like he felt ashamed to voice it even for a second.  “She focuses on raising my sisters; she thinks being mum is the best job in the whole world.”

Anne’s chin tightened, glancing at Harry, who was unaware of the expression of guilt.

“That’s very brave of her. Not all are ready for the level of commitment it takes to dismiss what could be a promising career.”

Louis let out a relieved exhale. He fiddled with Harry’s hand, thumb passing over the tiny little cross inked on a particularly smooth area of his skin.

“Yeah. She’s a supermom.” Wistful.

 

***

 

Louis licked his lips. “What should we do?”

“What do you mean?”

The cypress beside them rustled in the wind. It teased the opening of Harry’s light shirt. His nipples were hard. Louis crossed his arms across his chest in empathy.

“Should we call this off? It has already gone too far. Soon there are too many lies spread, and too many people fooled to hang onto the correct story. Trust me, I know.”

Harry looked to his mum and back, wistful.

“I really don’t like lying to her.”

“Then why are you still doing this? They’ll know we lied sooner or later.”

“For reasons.”

Louis noted he could be glaringly obvious in his lie when he was fighting with his conscience that told him to be honest. But, he also knew Harry kept to his principles, and pressuring would do nothing. If he had decided lying was the right course of action, it was the only course of action.

Harry continued, “They’ll forget it all after this is done; recalling this as just a passing fancy, if that.”

Unlikely, thought Louis, recalling Anne’s delighted face when she heard about their relationship. It was clear it did not happen often. Or ever. This, however it played out, was unlikely to end without a fuss.

“Fine,” he said.

“What would you have done then, if you were in my situation?”

Louis opened and closed his mouth several times. “I would have—would have…not done _this_. This is ridiculous.”

“Is that what your mum had to say when you told her you would spend the holiday with me?” Louis grimaced, and Harry pressed, “What? _You haven’t told her?”_

Like I need to, Louis would have started, I’m a grown man. But, as though by some cosmic joke, his phone started to ring along a far too familiar tune that had never sounded less happy.

And like Harry was in on it, he crossed his arms expectantly, a mocking mirroring of Louis’ pose.

Louis swallowed, and picked up the call. “Hi, mum.”

“Hi, Lou. How’s my— _ssshhzzz_ —birthday boy? Congratulations— _ssssss_ …”

“Mum, I can’t quite hear you.”

“ _Sss_ —sorry, love, the connection is bad. Where are you? Underground?”

“Mum, I can’t quite hear you.”

“ _Sss_ —sorry, the connection is bad. Where are you? Underground?”

“No, in the backyard, actually—”

“I don’t recall you having a backyard in your studio? Are you with a friend?”

“Um.” Louis looked at the man occupying the sunbed next to him. Now was a good time as any. “Sort of. Remember that alpha we talked about? We were just celebrating my birthday. As friends. He’s a friend of mine now.”

Great, Louis. Very smooth, Louis.

Harry perked up, giving him the universal gesture for ‘going on’. Louis wished he had not managed to convey quite so much judging with it.

Louis brought the phone a bit further from his ear. “Could you just wait,” he whispered and brought it back. Although he had a hard time concentrating on the happy tirade his mum had started as soon as she found he had made a friend. Harry was watching him like a hawk.

And he struck as quick as one.

“What—hey!”

But the phone had already changed ears, Harry droning a cheery, “Hello, Louis’ mum,” to Jay, and Louis could only watch in concern as he proceeded to charm his mother’s pants off via phone only. And, when the call ended some ten-odd minutes later, Harry had somehow managed to explain the full situation, call himself guilty for whisking away her son without asking for her consent first, and promised to “take good care of Lou-bear.”

“Yes, I sure will,” Harry was saying finally, dimples unwavering on both cheeks. “Have a good night, Jay.”

He hung up, Louis pouncing on him like a wolf. “What are you doing? We were not supposed to include her into the mess, were we? What if she had wanted to call your mum? Or have I missed a loophole in our spoken agreement?”

“’Course not.” Harry handed the phone back to him. “I was helping _you._ If I remember correctly it was you who had a concerned parent and I’m playing the part of your lovely, awesome and now mother-approved friend and I fail to see how that was wrong of me.”

“Because now that she has a voice and a character to add to the name, she will start to hope our friendship develops into something bigger.”

And, what Harry didn’t know, Jay had more insight into Louis’ feeling for Harold the Umbrella-Stealer (and as of newly named Harry the New Friend). And if he got a hold of those, then the hell would break loose.

Unless it had already been unleashed, taken Harry’s indignantly opened mouth, and the angle of his brow.

“And would it be that horrible?” he insisted. “It’s her own conclusion, I’m sure an adult can handle being let down. Or am I not the kind of alpha your mother should think is your type?”

“But you’re not my type, are you? This is all fake, remember?”

He knew right then it was something he shouldn’t have said.

“Yes. I remember perfectly well,” Harry said stiffly, and stomped off.

Louis stared numbly after him; Harry retreating up the stairs, slipping past the patio doors clumsily but not stopping, although Louis thought he saw him bumping into the doorway, hard. Hadn’t he seen it? Was he _crying?_

“First fight?”

Louis gave a start; he almost had forgotten Anne sitting in the shade. How much had she heard?

“Don’t worry, love. The first ones are always the hardest. Trust me, after five years, you won’t even bat an eye at them.” She patted his shoulder. “My son has always been a bit dramatic when angry, but he does not hold a grudge,” she told Louis and nudged him. “Go to him. I’m sure he’s already feeling sheepish about it all.”

And Louis went.

True to Anne’s words, when Louis’ sun-dazzled eyes adjusted to the light indoors, he found Harry hovering near the stairs behind the sliding glass doors, one foot frozen on the first step, apparently having lost all his frenzy in mere minutes. When he heard Louis’ steps, he turned around, and grimaced. His eyes had a wet sheen, and only some redness indicating he had rubbed them only seconds before.

“Sorry. I don’t know what came into me.”

“I was being a twat. That’s enough reason for anyone. You should see me with my best mate. I drive him up the literal walls.”

Harry’s lips quirked, and he looked somewhat happy again, instead of defeated.

“I’m sorry, too. For, you know, being really on you about this faking thing when you’re doing this voluntarily. It’s not like this is your job, and—”

Louis took Harry’s hand and squeezed. He told himself it was only to reassure both the alpha, and his inner omega that all anger was gone. Harry’s eyes zeroed in on their entwined hands.

Louis’ eyes fluttered up at him. “No hard feelings, eh?”

“Nah, you do tend to drive people absolutely crazy.”

It wasn’t necessarily a compliment, yet Louis couldn’t help the weak, thin smile tugging at his facial muscles. 

“Now that I’m done being a little shit, thanks,” he told Harry sincerely. “You were very kind to my mum. It was nice of you to…lessen her worry-load.”

“It’s no problem.”

Harry paused, eyes flitting to his lips and back. He licked his lips. He must have realized the lewdness in his own actions because a flush rose on top of cheeks at Louis’ lifted brows, but his eyes stayed fixed on Louis’.

“Louis.” Almost a needy whine.

“Oh, thank God,” said Louis, as though someone had taken several stones of weight off his shoulders. “I had feared it would be a one-time thing.”

Harry surged forward.

They were still standing close, foreheads touching, lips glossy, when Robin exited his office, looking far too pleased at finding them blocking his path to the patio.

 

 

***

 

The evening of 24th found them back at Harry’s place after hours of carols, having shut themselves in Harry’s darkened living room, Pink Floyd filling the room from the large stereos, and staring at nothing.

Which was pretty much what Louis found himself still doing the next morning, freshly 25 years old, and he could swear he felt the gained time as he stared at the wet tile.

Rain drummed on his back from the shower heads, and he arched his neck lower, moaning lowly. His eyes squeezed tightly shut under the stream of warm water, he was aware of the presence in the bathroom when something glassy was placed on a countertop with a _clink!_ Through the frosted glass of the shower screen, Harry’s figure moved to shave in front of the mirror.

Louis restarted, slowly, to soap himself, thinking this was oddly domestic.

Outside, Harry watched Louis’ form flickering behind the glass of the shower. He was massaging shampoo into his hair vigorously, and Harry’s fingers went numb around the razor as he eyed the sexy curve of Louis’ back longingly.

“What’s on the schedule for today?” asked Louis.

That snapped Harry out of it. He squeezed a liberal amount of shaving cream on his palm. This was how he had imagined things being if they really were together—unless he was in the shower with Louis, but that was a whole another daydream.

“Back to my parents’. It’s time for the annual Embarrass the Kids show.”

 

***

 

“I hate watching the same videos of myself over and over again.”

Gemma laid on a couch, a pillow thrown over her head, moaning in exaggerated embarrassment. Louis giggled at it, thinking she loved it anyway, otherwise she wouldn’t be asking so much attention to herself.

The shoulder under Louis’ head moved as the owner of it said, “Hey, I’m in them, too.”

“Yeah, suck it up.”

“Oh, so you’re teaming up on me now?” She stopped gripping the pillow with her left hand to use it for flipping them off at the same time Harry rose to get water from the kitchen and fourteen-year-old Harry was taping his hand to a school desk on tv. “Just watch, I will see yours someday.”

“And? I was a very cute baby, nothing to be ashamed of, there. Had the most perfect bum in England.”

Louis tried to make himself comfortable, curling into the space Harry had warmed like a cat. He snorts as cherub-faced Harry can’t get his arms out of the trap when the school bell rings. Gemma finally let go of her pillow, only to stare Louis down.

“What?” he asked, feeling a swooping sensation in his stomach. He thought they were over this.

“Nothing.” She did not stop, but started to crack up and Louis let himself loosen a little.

“Seriously, what?”

“You are staring after my brother like a teenage omega.”

Louis’ answering flush and denial were frighteningly genuine and panicked. Like there was something wrong in staring at your boyfriend? “Just not used to it. His clothes, I mean. He looks so normal in a tee and jorts. It’s like he’s always before dressed to impress someone.”

The couch creaked, Louis turning to find Gemma closer to him, elbows propped on the pillow and hands under the chin, a devious smile only inches from his face.

“I debated for a while whether I should call you out or not,” she said, “but are you aware of the things your face is doing when you look at him?”

Frankly, Louis wasn’t sure what his face did right then, but it must have been beetroot red. Gemma might have made a comment on it, but Louis couldn’t be sure because just then Harry came back with two glasses of water, shimmying past Robin in his armchair, as seen earlier, reading his Christmas present— _28 Healthy but Filling Snacks for Busy Lives by Amanda Thorn._

Anne came into the room, on his heels, saying, “Oh, we’ve already got to 2011,” but before she could take a seat on the other couch, she was interrupted by a girlish scream.

 _“Oh my God, oh my God!”_ said the TV.

Louis’ brows rose. He was sure someone had fainted in the first row; a still cherubic-looking Harry was on the stage, signing by himself while a younger Gemma was seen rolling her eyes just in the edge of the footage. Mystified by the response her little brother got from the crowd of his peers.

“I wonder how on earth you earned your reputation…although perhaps your curls got the job done to the gullible young women. They must have got a shallow crush on you on the first, drawled ‘Hi.’”

 _“Shallow?”_ asked Harry, head recoiling on his neck, an exaggeratedly disgusted expression on his face. “My fans, thank you very much, are extremely dedicated.”

“I have nothing against them...except I kind of have. Fan culture makes people resort to far too many capital letters and intentional spelling mistakes.”

Harry continued with the game easily, adopting an expression of _Your teacher is showing._

“You have spent far too much time interacting with the fandom,” he said. “You leave me no choice but to take drastic measures. Hand over your phone.”

“Nope.” Playful.

“Louis.”

“Nah.” Louis toyed with the hem of his joggers, a sharp gleam in the corners of his squinted eyes that was far from innocent. “If you want it, come and get it.” He dropped the phone, his stomach twitching as the smooth, cold phone case slid down his exposed hip. “If you dare.”

Harry watched the square shape shifting lower under the dark blue fabric.

“You underestimate the things I have accidentally had my mother witness. Fetching a phone from between your thighs is a piece of cake. And,” he smirked, “I should know that well: I once worked in a bakery.”

Without warning, there was a hand down his pants.

 

***

 

 

Louis got a quick glance at the flushed cheeks of his reflection in the night-darkened windows.  They sped past bedroom after bedroom upstairs, rushing, liquor in their blood.

See, it had all started as an accident: Harry straightening his feet under the table and accidentally kicking the leg of Louis’ chair. Which Louis retaliated. And Harry retaliating the retaliation. And so on. It must have been the wine; it had always made Louis brazen. But he couldn’t help the way his foot lingered on Harry’s calf. Harry tried to fight it off, and their shuffle became visible, much to Gemma’s apparent amusement and exasperation.

“Will you two stop with the footsie already? Disgusting. You make us single ones look bad. Frigid-hearted, emotion dead stones.”

“So only you,” said Harry.

Gemma made an ugly face at that, highlighted by the shadows created by the freshly-unwrapped-collectors-item candle stick near her. Louis thought of his own presents: a novel (from Gemma, he suspected), a gift card to Amazon (he did not dare to think how much money was in it) and a high-end razor (which must have been from Robin, Louis thought, looking at the elder alpha gratefully). Harry’s present to him mustn’t have been under the Twists’ sparsely decorated big tree—if he had even bought one. Maybe he had been too busy to?

“What happened to Mathew,” asked Anne, confused, having stopped mid-cutting the stuffed chicken breast on the center of the dining room table.

“We broke up last month. No big deal.” Gemma gestured dismissively with the hand her red wine was in, and some of it sloshed on her plate. The pre-dinner shots of eggnog were starting to show. “It was all very amiable.”

“Uh-huh,” said Harry. “Is that why you still have his face as your lock screen?”

Gemma squawked, slipping her phone away from Harry who was peering at it exaggeratedly, leaning all the way to his sister’s personal space.

“And you should contain your mate-face before your face splits.”

Harry’s dimples only deepened at that, looking pleased.

“But I must admit,” Gemma continued, taking her sweet, sweet time with the rest of the sentence, knowing full well she had the table’s undivided attention. “That this one does drink well.”

“Cheers to that!” Louis said.

They clinked their glasses together. Harry looked at him from under his lashes when Louis licked some spilled wine off his thumb—which led to the situation at hand:

“Where are we running to,” Louis panted.

“To get your Christmas present.”

The present turned out to be a drunken snogging session against the door of a guest room, Harry’s hands gripping low on the small of Louis’ back. Really low. Harry breathed hotly against his beck, as he said: “You know, this is the second time a drunk me is appreciating the—” a squeeze, “—absolute beauty of this part of you. How you filled those pants at the Christmas party was—” a second squeeze “—pure sin. Things to write songs about.”

Louis let out a whimper. He was weak for Harry admitting their violent flirting before the deal. It kept his hope floating; possibility that this wouldn’t be the end.

“H-Harry, what if,” he started, breathless. “What if we didn’t stop.”

“What? You mean this?”

Louis nodded hurriedly, Harry letting go of him and returning some distance between them. Which did very good things to the clearness of Louis’ thoughts. He needed to gauge the sudden wariness in Harry better.

“That’s awfully kinky of you,” Harry jested. “Right in my parents’ house.”

Louis frowned, and then laughed. “Not _this_ , this. I meant the pretending—what if we didn’t. You know.” Maybe his head wasn’t as clear as he had thought. He cursed the last glasses of wine. Harry’s intent green eyes weren’t making it any easier. “I—“

“Harry?”

They froze. The silence that fell upon them, and the mood thickening the air, caused their heavy breathing to seem louder than a steam train. Listening to the sound of Anne knocking on their bedroom door two doors down, got them in hysterics, though.

“Oh my God.” Harry’s chest trembled against him in held-back laughter. “Pinch me. Am I really getting caught at snogging my boyfriend by my mother after bedtime.”

“No. You’re getting caught giving your Christmas present to your boyfriend by your mother.”

The trembling got worse.

“Too bad I didn’t actually manage to unwrap anything.” He gave a meaningful pinch at the low waistline of the jorts.

The trembling broke into a loud honk. A questioning, “Harry?”  was heard outside the door that sent them into a whispered hissy-fight that sounded like an old, sputtering pipe.

“Oh no. no. no. Now you’ve done it. She’s coming this way.”

Anne’s steps came closer until they stopped right outside the door. Their flushed, guilty faces were flooded with the hallway light. Anne’s expression was hidden in the shadows but she must have got a real picture of them two.

“I would have asked where you disappeared before opening the last pile of presents,” she sounded amused, and rather fond, “but I guess this is pretty self-explanatory.”

Louis watched Harry duck his head. A curl was tangled beside his ear that Louis had no recollection of tugging. When had his mouth made that mark on his neck?

“Sorry, mum. It’s all just gift baskets from your colleagues anyway.”

A hand was toying with the hem of Louis’ shirt. He was trying to keep a straight face, but despite his theater background, poker face seemed like a tremendous task these days. Especially when faced with a killer-pair of dimples on those plush-skinned cheeks.

“They have all had your name on the card for twenty-three years now.”

“What?” Louis couldn’t help but ask. “Do they read: ’To the Twist-Styles family’? Sounds pretty lazy to me.”

That sent Harry off again, wine drunk and easily spurred on.

Anne shook her head, and closed the door.

 

  
***

Sweat sheened on taut stomach muscle. Louis wanted to lick the drops of the collected moisture off the dips between the abs. All the way down to the waist of the basketball shorts—the most unflattering item he had seen on Harry so far. They showed none of his assets; thighs, bum nor front.

Louis couldn’t see how many lbs. he was bench-pressing but taken the visible bulging of his arms, there was a lot of weight involved. In the moment when the heavy steel clanked back onto the supporter, there was only the sound of Harry’s heavy breaths. The only reason Louis’ presence at the door of the home gym hadn’t been noticed were the wires leading to Harry’s ears.

The alpha didn’t seem to notice him even as he next moved onto the dark-carpeted floor, laying down for sit-ups. The way his muscles rippled caused the butterfly to fly. Then, he stopped. An earphone had come off and Louis shifting his weight to his other foot must have made a sound. Harry turned.

“Hi,” said Louis. He was beyond being embarrassed at getting caught ogling.

“Hey.”

Louis loved how deep and rough his voice sounded after training for an hour. When Louis made no further comment, Harry resumed his activities, taking a deep breath that expended his chest so that Louis could have trailed his fingers along every rib. It made him self-conscious of his own spongy middle. In ten minutes, around between the twentieth and the twenty-first push-up, Louis gave up loitering by the doorway and walked closer, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Harry froze. “Are you going to slip under me? Because if I’m being cheered on by a peck on the lips every time I successfully lift myself up, I might have to pinch myself.”

“No need to torture your pretty skin.” Louis licked his lips nervously. He wiggled on his bum. “I’m here to continue our…talk from last night.”

Harry’s lips twitched. His arms trembled as he held himself still. “Is that what they call it these days.”

“This time I’m not making dirty jokes, Harry. I was trying to, I guess, _re-negotiate_ our contract before your mum walked in.”

Harry gave up the lifts and mimicked Louis’ pose. Harry looked genuinely puzzled

“Where you?”. “Was it about the presents? Because I know you don’t like asking things for yourself—and I did try to ask mum to not spend quite so much on them. I really didn’t want to make it feel like I am paying off your continuing upholding of our agreement.” He trailed off at the end of his speech when Louis’ expression (whatever it must have been at the moment) told him he was way off the mark. “Or…was it some sort of faking-with-benefits type of thing?”

Louis’ thoughts stuttered to a final stop. “You don’t remember?”

Harry grimaced while biting a lip. It stretched wide, pale and bloodless until snapping back as Harry confessed ashamedly, “Sorry, I’m a messy drinker.”

And suddenly Louis didn’t have the courage to do it. Re-starting the conversation would have needed a bigger push than he could soberly gather. Searching, he looked at the machines; rowing machine, bike, running mill, a punching bag hung from the ceiling. Under it was a pair of discarded boxing gloves.

“Boxing?” he asked, his face stretching into faked grudging respect. “Training for future? To punch the bad boss?”

Harry didn’t smile, just looked confused as to why they had changed topic so quickly. In the end, he humored the omega, “I wish,” he said, and massaged his stomach. “As a public figure, I need to do it. No one enters Hollywood and doesn’t box. It’s just not done.”

Louis out a breath of not so silent disagreement through his nose.

“What would you do it for? You’ve got the security for that, plus,” he waved his wrist around Harry’s general direction, “you’re about the size of a—the size of a bloody mountain, you beef. It’s us omegas who should have a private gym downstairs.”

“Of course. I agree. Have you received training, then?”

“I think it will be enough to throw you off me.” A little proud.

“Really? We could ty it,” Harry said, and stood up in a single, surprisingly coordinated movement.

Louis startled. “Right now?”

In his head, _Thank all the gods for this alpha, and at the same time, and fuck all of them for making him so untouchable._ He cursed, not for the first time, the tiny horseshoe-shaped Greek letter on the corner of his birth certificate that meant nothing…fat lot of luck had that given him.

Harry prompted, “Why not?”

They walked to the middle of the room, Harry pacing there confidently, Louis dragging his feet there.

“Well?” asked Harry, pointing at himself. “Hit me.”

“With my best shot?”

“Alright, Pat Benatar. You’re not going to hit the money-maker. My insurance covers it, anyway, but I doubt you would even reach it since you’re so short.”

Their eyes squinted, Harry’s in mirth, Louis’ in determination as he said, “Wow, insulting a man’s greatest weakness. Very brave, especially from someone who bruises like a peach.”

Louis saw the smile tugging the corners of Harry’s mouth, even though he tried to cover it for propriety’s sake, but failed. Louis felt patronized.

“Now,” Harry set his legs a bit wider apart, raised his hands, gently fisted, to protect his middle, “gimme your best shot.”

Louis supposed things under the belt were out of bounds, although it had not been explicitly mentioned. He pondered for a while between a sneakier approach and a punch, or a kick. Which would Harry be expecting? Should he really use that elbow now, because looking at the guns bulging out of the tee, he’s bony wrist wouldn’t cause a dent.

He thought he could get within elbow-swinging distance if he took a step disguised as a kick closer. But when his right foot swung through the air, it wasn’t as fast or low enough to be pulled back quickly, and predictably, Harry raised a fist to secure the blow. When Louis begun to lower his foot, Harry’s fingers closed in on his ankle, prisoning it.

Harry’s eyes looked pitying. “If that had been a real fight, I would have twisted your leg,” he gave it a gentle tug in representation, “and you would have fallen, making it easy for me to have my way. Never forget that a kick should be like a bee sting: withdraw as quick as you go.”

“You were too far,” Louis argued, just to have something to say. “And I have short legs. If you had gotten me into a choke hold, I could have escaped.”

“You only need time to run away. I hope you don’t intend to stay around.”

He still had Louis’ foot in his grip, and the feeling of it was doing something to him; something that caused warmth to pool in his lower stomach. Hot enough to almost overwhelm the burn of his leg muscle pulled too tight.

He coughed, Harry releasing his leg, and they shuffled around some more. When they came out of the basement, Anne gave them a look, seeing Louis’ flustered appearance and messy fringe.

Harold said, “We were just,” a clearing of throat, “boxing.”

Anne’s brows rose even higher.

 

***

 

Louis was pushed against the entry hall wall as soon as the door closed behind them.

“I’m not going to let Harry Styles fuck me against the first wall he comes across.”

Harry, lifting his lips from where they had inched upwards the fine line of Louis’ collarbone, sensed the omega react to his own words, and smirked.

“At least not today,” Louis amended.

They stumbled together into the closest guest bedroom where they kissed fervently at the foot of the bed, collapsed on the bed, half their clothes lost along the hallway. They had both been tied up in so many knots from being around each other that it was about time they had to let it out of their system; to test if a quick tumble would settle it, or if this mutual need ran deeper.

With the light still on, Louis’ eyes fell on the ceiling. Especially the mirror above the bed, and he smirked.

“You kinky little shit.” Admiring.

“It’s not _my_ room—”

Louis shut him up.

They lay facing each other among the billows and rumpled sheets. Theirs legs were tangled, starting where the other ended. Harry had left on a lamp in the far corner of the room, its almost candle-warm light creating shadows across their skin, causing it to glow. Harry felt drunk on some wine, drunk on the lingering Christmas spirit, and, especially, drunk on Louis.

Every time he blinked, it was like a butterfly had landed on the fine bone of his cheek. Every time his eyes opened again, the blue looked even more startling than before.

“Kiss me,” said Louis.

Harry’s lips twitched briefly at the demand. Louis’ hands looped loosely around his waist were a firm presence. As asked, Harry cupped Louis’ face and brought his face down, ghosting Louis’ lips gently as though imitating the touch of the lashes.

“Mmmh,” murmured Louis, flattening his hand on Harry’s back, “wake me up when we get down to business.”

Harry paid his sass no mind, continuing his trail of faint kisses up and down Louis’ cheeks. Contrary to his words, he could feel Louis’ pulse speeding up under his ministrations, beating a rhythm that would drive off all sleep. The following question got past his mouth, even though he knew the answer.

“Have you ever made love?”

“Vanilla sex you mean? I bet it’ll be missionary, all dull and face to face, but you tend to lean towards originality so, I won’t say no to spooning if that’s something you’re into. Don’t want to make you do something you’re uncomfortable with.”

“I just like it slow.” A little dismissing.

“Figured that. I can do it slow, no problem.”

Nervousness struck Harry; he wanted to be worthy of it. He knew Louis considered sex as something given as naturally as passing salt, that he wondered why Harry got such hand-wringing anxiety over his flings, because, to him, this meant _everything_ , while Louis’ motives and wishes remained unknown.

Would he look back on this with regret, with yearning or, he hoped, with cherish?

He fingered the hem of Louis’ shirt, watching the band of exposed skin widen, revealing a curved tummy where a happy trail would have been, and it drove Harry mad wondering if it was natural or shaved off. Louis’ skin was so smooth that shadows pooled only on the vertical line above his belly button, and, softer, on the indent between his pecs. Against it, the skin of Harry’s hand—exposed to the year-around sunshine of L.A.—was only slightly tanner than Louis’ middle.

In the center of the smooth chest were two nipples; small and puckered. Harry wanted to slide his hand across Louis’ ribcage, just to see if they would harden more. When Harry leaned to acquaint himself with them, a knee was propped against his bare stomach, holding him at arm’s length.

“Let’s not rush into it,” Louis said. “I want to see all the merchandize before purchase.”

“You want me to strip for you?”

There wasn’t a lot of clothing left. Just his boxer briefs, to be exact.

“Take them,” said Louis, “off.”

Harry hitched his hips up, and, pointedly without further ado and festivities, tugged his pants off. The waistband caught dramatically at the head of his cock. As the last separating fabric was removed, Harry saw Louis’ gaze drop, instinctively, and watched the emotions flicker on his eyes. Surprise, amusement, then something rawer.

“Well?” Harry prodded, and tried not to let it inflate his ego, but it was hard when looking at the dark sweep of Louis’ lashes covering the bedroom eyes currently still looking down at his nakedness.

“Don’t get too cocky,” Louis warned, eyes rising to return his gaze steadily, not flushed at all. “So there really is the famous clover leaf. I almost thought it to be an urban legend.”

“I don’t tend to lie about what’s below the waist.”

They kissed. Their entwined bodies formed rippling shapes on the wall, cast by the lamp behind them. Harry trailed his fingers down Louis’ spine. The skin, as he found, was soft and pleasantly sun-kissed. Louis seemed to have a sound for every respective inch his fingertips crossed, soft and breathy. Harry kissed his neck where the sounds grew louder, the throat vibrating under his lips. He licked to taste the skin; Louis’ throat curved.

Slowing down when he reached the swell of the bum, Harry’s fingers grazed up and down the valley between Louis’ cheeks, and whose body started to come alive under Harry’s hands. Growing pliant, more responsive. It was like he curved his body to touch as much of Harry’s as possible.

When Louis’ hands sought out his cock, though, Harry had to intervene. “Not that fast. We’ve got to take our time.”

He felt Louis’ ribs expand in an overdone inhale, and the exhale that got his suddenly airborne curls tangled in his eyelashes. A chuckle broke out of his lips as he plucked them off.

Louis had to look away because of his staring, and once collected, kneeled on the bed, and swung a leg on the other side of Harry so that his waist was bracketed by his thighs. Harry felt Louis’ heels dig into the outer muscles of his legs when Louis bend towards him, giving him friction. Harry fought off bucking his hips.

“Well, well,” Louis whispered against his mouth, “look who’s hurrying now?”

“Sorry, it’s just your scent.” Harry had a hard time trying to keep his mouth away from Louis, to not cover his lips with his and forget what he was about to say. “I can feel it, I can see it on you. How much you want me.” From another’s mouth, such sentence would have been obnoxious, but the wonder in his Harry’s voice made it hard to judge him. “It was the same, on our first night in the master suite, when you looked like you had been caught red handed at something forbidden, and ran away before I could even have the chance to do anything, and before you sidetracked my horny self with your birthday.”

He was using that voice again, the one Louis recognized not having heard since, _I’m up—well, a part of me is._ Turned on.

Louis pulled back a little at the sight of Harry chasing his lips. Harry’s head collapsed back into the pillow with a huff. Fond and frustrated, if one could be such things at the same time.

Louis suggested, “Maybe we should start with me on my back.”

Harry smiled against Louis’ hair. Securing an arm around Louis’ waist, he flipped them over, sheets getting tangled around their ankles, and stopped. Louis looked so pretty, even when flushed in pleasure, cheeks pinked and clashing with the red pigment of his stubble, yet harry adored the flaw all the more as he felt the warm softness of Louis’ inner thigh sliding up his hip. Harry shimmied down, took Louis in his mouth, just to get a taste, and laid on him again, touching Louis’ neck with his lips where it was warmest, his scent strongest. His cock begged for attention, laying hot against Louis’ hip.

Louis moaned, “I think this may actually be working for me or I’m just that out of practice. I’m so fucking wet.”

He couldn’t seem to stop blabbering.

“Please,” pleaded Harry, who considered himself something opposite of a knothead, but Louis’ confession had stroked something primal in him, “don’t say ‘it’s never been like this’ if it’s only to humor me.”

Louis evidently felt called out; his shock was clear in his sudden silence and stillness.

Then, by Louis’ bidding, Harry’s mouth was on him again, this time moving in sync with his lips. The kiss deepened.  Harry took inherent pleasure in spreading his palm on Louis’ other thigh and making more room for him to fit between.

Louis let out a sound of invitation.

And Harry faintly dipped a finger in where he could feel the response to his ministrations starting to slicken Louis’ skin. Louis went pliant again and laid his head down on Harry’s pillow with a quiet groan. Harry felt Louis’ every twitch as though they were his own waves of pleasure.

“I love your skin,” Harry rambled, as though feverish. “I think it would look even better with some more ink on it.”

“Uh huh? Is there anything specific you would be pleased to see me _marked_ with?”

He’ll be the death of me _,_ though Harry, but said, “I happen to wish great many things.”

“So do I,” said Louis, and thrusted his hips up meaningfully. God, Harry loved when he got bossy. Arousal stirred in his lower stomach. “Alas, they have not come true yet despite my heavy hinting. I changed my mind. I want to be on top.”

Harry couldn’t quite find it in himself to be annoyed when the warm thighs lowered from his waist.

When Louis eventually reached behind to grip Harry’s cock, to slide down onto it, the room around them appeared to change shape, all objects taking a different form as his vision tunneled. He found himself staring, transfixed, at the shadow pooling in Louis’ prominent collarbones, hunched over him as he was. Inch by inch of warmth until his breathing was heavy. Then Louis’ bottom met the top of Harry’s thigs.

It was undoubtedly the closest they had ever been, and Louis must have felt it, where his palm lay pressed flat on Harry’s butterfly, fingertips inches from where his heart was beating wildly inside his chest, his ribs resonating. Or maybe that was just his stuttering breaths. He did not dare to move, in case he disrupted the harmony between them, broke a spell they were under, sensing there probably wouldn’t be a sequel to this. In fact, Harry was desperate to memorize how, where he couldn’t see, Louis’ rim kissed him, how nice it looked to have his own broad hand resting on Louis’ hip, fingers spread wide apart and covering the expanse of smooth skin from the mole above the bone, to the navel. And with these thoughts in his head, he may have gripped Louis in a move Harry would not live down if Louis found it uncalled for…

What he did not, could not, expect, was Louis’ response to it: he gasped, but with a shocked, whine-like edge to it.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, half in relief, half in recognition that, yes, Louis was used to a far more exciting sex life than what he had to offer.

The more Harry let out noises, praises, sometimes just repeating Louis’ name like a prayer, the more Louis seemed to give himself into it. We’re pleasers, Louis had once said with a strange expression on his face. Harry smothered his own low sound of need into the juncture of Louis’ neck and shoulder.

“Thought you would be louder,” he murmured.

“Why, it’s just for the attention. And I have yours, don’t I?”

He did. Harry watched as Louis chased the waves of his pleasure, grabbed his arms and dug his fingernails into Harry’s skin. Eyes fluttering up, Harry stared, flushed, at their entwined bodies in the mirror. Harry didn’t remember the state of hubris he had been in when having the ceiling mirror installed, but he was thankful for it now.

He thought of having this, but more domestic, after a dinner, after emptying the dish washer—everyday, having shared the stress of work and ready to relieve each other, the kind of symbiosis that only mates reach… The thoughts were bringing him close to his peak, only needing Lois to reach his to be complete… "Yes," Louis murmured, over and over, arching is back and rolling up his abs in turn. He continued to repeat the word until his face eventually smoothed out and they fell, tangled together, on top of the sheets.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiiiii,  
> I'm back! Thank you for anyone who reached me via Tumblr to ask about this fic. This is for you all, and especially to my Polish friend. Yes, I mean you, Annie haha x
> 
> I meant to post this as my first non-WIP fic but look at that. I couldn't wait to hear your feedback. Leave kudos, comment, subscribe, come bother my lazy ass on Tumblr (larriebane.tumblr.com), anything! I'm open to all communication. 
> 
> Hope you'll like it. Take care xx - M


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